Author, brilliant; publisher, not.

A quote from an article, ‘Author, 14, lands publishing deal’ in The Age on Friday.

Children’s Publisher Lisa Berryman said she had to keep reminding herself that Alexandra had written the book when she was just 13. “Alex’s brilliance literally leapt off the page,” she said.

I've never seen a leaping abstract noun. Must have been quite a sight! My collection continues to grow…

Set up.

What began as part of another story has taken on a life of its own. I can’t believe it’s happened again.

There are few things I love more than a good collection. Gathering, sorting and arranging a related set of objects together is one of life’s great pleasures. Be it general collections, like books and CDs, or more specific ones, like Boba Fett action figures (currently 21), different editions of my favourite novel, Catch-22 (18), or alternate versions of Duke Ellington’s jazz standard, Caravan (40), I find the urge to collect compulsive.

And it isn’t just things of value that I find it satisfying to draw together; any old crap will do: expired Metlink tickets, old bank statements, and even empty toilet roll tubes. Which leads me to wonder if perhaps the collecting is more important than the collection? Because I can think of no other way to explain the appeal of collecting cardboard cylinders. You know when you finish a roll, and instead of throwing it away, you place it on a shelf or on the window sill? First one, then two, and before you know it there’s a teetering tower of toilet rolls blocking out the light. All it takes are two tubes sitting there for me to catch the vision. Two tubes to make me look forward to the end of the next roll so that my tower can grow…

Oh dear. That’s unfortunate. And, I guess, revealing? Who would have known there’d be some sort of phallic resonance behind my compulsion; some instinctive need to build something larger than myself, to create a sense of significance through the construction of a… what do psychologists call it, an extension of myself?

Well, whatever, let’s not dwell on it.

No, let’s get back to the simple pleasure of gathering a collection. And the most satisfying sort of collection is the set: a collection with a starting point, an end point and a bunch of boxes to tick off in between. The set allows for the greatest sense of satisfaction because you know when you’re done and when you can rest; when you can ease your chair back onto its hind legs, and gaze with satisfaction on the completeness of what you’ve brought to be.

The only thing I dislike in a set is inconsistency; when common or repeating elements don’t match up. Titles change size or position, the logos move around and don’t line up, or, ye gods, the style changes altogether! I love variation, but variation within a theme.


Somewhat like a family of superheroes, where each member has their own distinct character and attributes, while still belonging to a larger, unified whole. Or a jazz performance where each player’s solo is a unique take on the same signature tune. I enjoy seeing how a style adapts and flows across a series (of books, CDs, DVDs or whatever), be it through colour, typeface, style of imagery, or the like. I like to see that the designer has thought ahead and considered the possibilities, and hasn’t just treated each new item as an all but blank canvas. Not that the designer’s always responsible, of course, as many inconsistencies result from bumps along the road of production, and most such issues are more niggles than throat-stompers. The real problem comes when the bean-counters get too involved, as bean-counters care only for their beans...


First up, there was Harry Potter. Disbelieve me if you will, but my choosing the adult covers (or ‘senior reader’ covers, if you prefer) over the original kiddie covers, had nothing to do with shame or embarrassment. It was simply that the kiddie covers were so absolutely awful, and I had the option to choose. Actually, the adult ones aren’t great either, but they’re restrained and don’t look like they’ve been drawn by a colour-blind hedgehog in a bag (to nick a favourite Blackadder expression). So I bought in, and guess what? When the fifth book of seven was released the publishers dumped the existing adult style and re-released the entire series in a completely different one. What’s an anal perfectionist to do? There’s no way I’m having four spines on my bookshelf in one style and three in another that’s completely different. So I stopped buying and started borrowing. Sorry JK, that new wing on your castle will just have to wait.


And speaking of borrowing over buying, I wish I’d done that when it came to Robert Jordan’s ponderous Wheel of Time saga. For a while Jordan drew me along with a carrot of promise, but over time he started using it to just slap me in the face. Not only did he make me slog through 7125 pages (for real) featuring (roughly) the same number of surly and unlikeable characters, involved in an exponentially growing number of plots and sub-plots, but he (or rather, his publisher, but I’m not feeling generous enough to make the distinction) rebooted the series’ artwork after nine of his wretched house-bricks. Nine! Forget the faithful who’ve been on-board from the start! Let me tell you, Orbit Books: if sales figures are falling, the problem does not lie with the covers. And notice how not only does the publisher's logo change for book eight (annoying), but it then changes back to the original logo for book nine (even more annoying)!

And so, lesson (to pass onto our children’s children) learned: don’t buy into a series until it’s complete.

Only, that’s no help with a series already underway. Just when I thought it safe to go back into the bookshop, in sink the sharp, pointy teeth of Martin Gilbert’s three volume epic, ‘A History of the Twentieth Century’.


I bought Volumes 1 and 2 when they were released back in the late 90s, but I somehow missed number 3. I kept an eye out for it over the years, but it never crossed my path. As I just recently started on Volume 1, I finally decided to make a real effort to track the elusive book down. Though the hardcover is out of print in Australia, it is available on Amazon.com, but with different cover art to mine, which I assumed to be the US style. Confusingly though, the same style appears not only on the version available at Amazon.co.uk, but also in the listing on Martin Gilbert’s website. In fact, I could find no trace anywhere of Volume 3 featuring a style of cover that matched my two. Even eBay, Google, and peering through the entrails of a slaughtered Himalayan yak turned up nothing. Figuring that if anyone would know, the author would know, I sent Sir Martin an email through his website, asking if he was able to end the madness? This was his prompt reply:

Thank you so much for your most encouraging words.

Alas, there never was a uniform edition of volume three. I am sorry about this. I do not know what got into the publisher's heads.

With further thanks for writing as you do. You have made my day! Kind regards, Martin Gilbert

Not quite the, “It certainly does exist, and, here, I’ll send you one of the autographed copies I happen to have lying around,” that I was hoping for, but it’s good to have a definitive answer, at least. And bonus points for using 'alas'; one of my favourite words. What a friendly chap!

So, I’m left with five (equally unpleasant) options:
1. Buy Volume 3 in a non-matching style. (Does not compute);
2. Buy Volume 3 in a non-matching style and glue on a mocked-up spine in the original style. (No-one might know, but I would know);
3. Sell current volumes and buy all three in new style. (Possible, but alternate style is, imho, inferior);
4. Leave things as they are and not buy anything. (But if I don’t build it, they will not come); or
5. GEEEEETTT OVER IT! Seriously! (Hmmm. Sounds simple, but would in fact require complete rewiring of personality).

So! What a pit to be stuck in. Though, at least, some consolation, I haven’t fallen into the larger (possibly bottomless) pit of Star Wars. That, however, is a whole other post….

iFind Nothing.

What was that old Microsoft slogan? Oh yes, 'Where do you want to go today?' Well, hopefully it's to someplace you've been before, because this ol' Windoze machine ain't gunna be any help at all. :-)

UPDATE: I WAS WRONG. In sniping cheekily at Microsoft, I've done nothing but expose my own technamalogical ignorance. This screen indicates a hardware error, and there's every possibility, indeed it's quite likely, that this machine is not running Windows. Poor old Bill's got enough to deal with, without some smug little blogging nobody firing spitballs at his much-maligned child. In my defence, I can only argue that, like a Windows machine, I'm prone to errors.

Attack of the Quantity.

George Lucas is getting out of the movie business and into TV. Which would be good news if only he was getting out of script writing as well. In an interview on Variety.com, Lucas outlines his reasons:

"We don't want to make movies. We're about to get into television. As far as Lucasfilm is concerned, we've moved away from the feature film thing because it's too expensive and it's too risky.

"I think the secret to the future is quantity," Lucas said.

No mention of quality, unfortunately, but then what did you expect? Sigh.

A voice crying out from the wilderness.

CK's rattling the bones of a thread four months dead, and he wants to know if he's wasting his time? It's a timely comment because a Blogger feature I feel is greatly needed is the ability to check for any recent comments across all posts on a blog. I get emailed comments for mine, but, and maybe you'll be surprised to hear, I do read blogs other than my own. An RSS feed for comments could be ok, but I'd like a link on the main page to a list of recent comments over the entire blog.

I've been to Blogger's Wishlist page and let them know, but who knows if the masses are with me? Triple J, when are you going to write your own blogging code for me to use, so I can send my feature requests straight to the head of the queue? I want access, and I want features implemented, and I can't do it myself! Only you can set this right!

There: I've put the challenge out. Let's see who delivers first! :-)

UPDATE: I've just upgraded(?) to the all-new Blogger beta, with all-new features that promise to solve the climate crisis, wipe out Third World debt and cure the common cold. I've been putting it off for a while because the new features didn't interest me that much, but I finally decided to join the club. Wish I hadn't bothered now. Nothing's been ticked off my wishlist, and it seems that people's profile pictures no longer appear next to their comments. Maybe it only shows the pictures of people who are also on Blogger beta? Who knows. Maybe you should all get on the Beta bus and we can find out? I can't go back, but you can move forward...

UPDATE 2: Hup: the profile pics are back. Goodo.

Krusty Kreme.

Just got swept up in a cultural phenomenon, and dumped on a deserted beach, washed-out and wasted, like some bedraggled shipwreck survivor.

Yep, Krispy Kreme’ll do that to you.

So sweet, light and soft; they melt in your mouth like, well, like a sugar cube does. I wonder if there’s any connection? My mouth feels like some scorched, sugary wasteland; like a dead sea of sugar that’s run dry, leaving nothing behind but the bitter taste of regret. Too much, too much; but one donut is never enough.

For some reason I can’t work out, the first Krispy Kreme store to open in Victoria was way, way out at Fountain Gate. I’m sure the locals are mad for sugar out there, but I would have thought you’d do more business in the city? There must be other factors at work I’m not aware of? Whatever the case, a CBD store was not far behind, opening recently on Collins Street near Southern Cross Station.

This afternoon Nick, my boss, floated the idea of heading over to check things out. A trip out for sweet, sweet donuts during work time, you say? What crazy, upside-down, dream world have I woken up in? Brilliant. So, off we went, and once there, discovered a queue running out the door and down the street! Trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible (not wanting to be sprung queuing for donuts by any clients), we slowly shuffled forward to the counter, where we picked up a Sampler Box and a dozen Original Glazed donuts. Oh, sorry, ‘doughnuts’. (How’d that one sneak through the reforms? Noah Webster must be doing donuts in his grave!)

Once back at the studio, everyone gathered round and dug in, but, as with my first and only other experience of Krispy Kreme in New York in 2004, I was a little disappointed. You won’t believe this, but they were still just donuts! I mean, they were good, but not out-the-door-and-down-the-street-queuing type good; more of a yeah-if-I-was-walking-past type good, I think. Still just a victim of too much hype, I guess; too many years of too many freaks flying back from Sydney with box-loads under their arms, drooling over their precious haul like it was manna from heaven.

Still, this time it was fun snobbing everyone off by declaring that these Krispy Kreme’s were merely satisfactory, and simply nothing like the ones I’d had in America. He, he.

UPDATE: I just checked Krispy Kreme's entry on Wikipedia, where it says since the company went public, many stores have actually had to be closed due to unprofitability. "Though Krispy Kreme has blamed the low-carb diet craze," it says, "others more critical point to their relatively high prices for a product that consists mostly of air." Hilarious. Oh, and also, apparently Australia's the only place to have 24-hour drive-through service; so Americans might have 29 tasty varieties to choose from (in comparison to our paltry 15), but can they get them 24 hours a day? I think not! :-)

Australian Values.

I’ve been wondering. Does anyone know if flashing your headlights at oncoming traffic to warn of an upcoming speed-camera is a uniquely Australian act? Or is it common practice the world over? It certainly seems characteristically Australian – uniting in the blood-drenched spirit of Eureka to rebel against authority, etc, etc – but of course that doesn’t make it exclusively so.

And is the mortal-blow, ‘That’s Un-Australian,’ an expression that’s unique to our wide, flat, brown land? Or do Swedes, for instance, frown disapprovingly and declare, “That’s just Un-Swedish”? Or Brazilians shake their heads sternly and say, “Look, seriously, that’s Un-Brazilian”? Surely we can’t be the only ones to possess an all-purpose, Patriots’ phrase with the power to shame a scoundrel at 500 yards? ‘That’s Un-American’ sounds plausible, but I can’t say I’ve ever heard it. I suppose the British could use, ‘That’s just not cricket, mate’, but it lacks the sheer, unadulterated shaming power of our version.

Anyone travelled long and far and wide enough to know?

A grand Final.

A few random thoughts concerning the 2006 AFL Grand Final (The Battle of the Birds).

• I'm not that into football, but thought it was a cracker of a match. A friend who doesn’t like football at all (and who was unaware that the Grand Final was even on) popped in, and ended up watching the last quarter, which (to her surprise) she really enjoyed. “If football was always this good,” she said, “I’d watch it all the time!” Shame the Swans didn’t win, but the real winner was Football, yeah?! Course it was. I don’t like going for Sydney, but they have a greater connection to Melbourne than West Coast, and how else do you expect me to decide which team to go for? :-)

• So, what about the pre-game entertainment? Was that good as well? After reading the blurb in the Green Guide beforehand, my expectations were pretty high: “Join Stephen Quartermain for all of the spectacle of the greatest pre-match entertainment ever seen at an AFL Grand Final”. Wow! Strap yourself in! But, needless to say, in the end the only thing “spectacular” about the entertainment was its level of mediocrity.

• I have absolutely no experience in organising pre-game entertainment, but I reckon I could organise a more satisfying show than what was on display. And the first thing to go would be back-up singers. I’ve always hated back-up singers, with their lame synchronised gestures and stepping-on-the-spot dance moves, and up on the podium in their evening-wear, waving coloured scarves, they looked even more ridiculous than ever. Of course, it didn’t help that they were singing the West Coast club song; surely one of the worst ever? "We're the Big Birds"? Um, ok.

• And speaking of ridiculous, Channel Ten is a disgrace and they should have their broadcast rights stripped for not only once again inflicting the Australian Idol finalists on us, but for delivering a one-two knock-out blow by following up with the alleged Young Divas, who, to me, were totally inappropriate and totally out of place. Using them is like scavenging through your attic for Christmas presents for your family because you’re too cheap or lazy to get something better. And what percentage of the audience do you think would be diggin’ the Divas? I’d take a punt on not many. Surely, first and foremost - if not exclusively - the AFL should try to please its core audience: the Aussie Male, in all his Footy-Loving, Hard-Rockin’, Beer-Drenched glory. I mean, aren’t Wolfmother around for the ARIAs? (Also on Ten, actually, so there's a missed opportunity for cross-promotion!) Couldn’t they have popped in for a quick gig? And surely Jet wouldn’t mind playing for a bit of publicity now that their new album is in stores?

• I don’t know.

• Anyway, speaking of footy’s core audience, during the interminable motorcade of heroes, I noticed one superstar’s name on the side of his vehicle was Danyle Pearce. Not how I'd choose to spell 'Daniel', but there you go.

• Also, a word of advice: if you have a fully-catered 30th Birthday Do to attend the evening of the Grand Final, don't eat too many pies during the day. You will pay.

• In addition, I just finished watching the NRL Grand Final. What a stupid, stupid game.