If you’re a Secret Diaries fan, Cassandra has a new one posted on her livejournal: The Very Secret Diary of Theoden actually went up on Christmas, and I read it but I forgot to post it for you. Didn’t remember until I checked it out today to see if a new one was up yet. Er.

My luck with books has been so-so for the past few months. Last week I finished the pile of books I got for Christmas, so I sorted through my many shelves of books to see if I could find something that (a) I hadn’t read, (b) I had abandoned, or (c) really wanted to re-read. I pulled out Shadows Over Lyra and said, Woo, a whole three books I haven’t read! I had picked up this three-in-one omnibus edition of some Lyra novels by Patricia C Wrede six years ago and couldn’t get past the second chapter, so I put it away. Perfect, I thought!

Well, I got further than the second chapter, but wow, is it ever boring, and I think it’s about to be re-shelved. I think I might need to find another home for it. Before I do, I might try skipping to the second book in the omnibus, and then the third. Maybe it’s just the first novel that’s bland and derivative and has boring characters. (I can hope, can’t I?) I’m a bit confused, because I love Wrede’s Enchanted Forest Chronicles, all her short stories that I’ve read, and her epistolary novel co-written with Caroline Stevermer.

Other books I’ve given up on: Carole Nelson Douglas’ Chapel Noir, which is a novel about two women investigating a series of grisly Parisian murders that echo the little Ripper affair in Britain the previous year. When my favourite character (who has narrated the previous four novels in this series) was kidnapped, and I realised that she wasn’t coming back in this book, I really lost interest. Another book to put back on the shelf. It’s been sitting on my bedside table, where books I’m getting tired of sometimes go so that I can fall asleep (I won’t get caught up in the action and read ’till two, you see), but being a grisly murder investigation, it’s really not the type of thing that’s conducive to relaxing, you know?

I’ve been valiantly trying to read Bernard Cornwell’s The Winter King for t!, but the writing style really leaves me so completely neutral. It’s a retelling of the Arthurian story in a style that imagines what actual Celtic history might have been like at the time – none of this flowery knights in plate armour stuff. It’s about war chiefs and mud and politics, and while it’s a nice change from the usual, I’m just not interested in reading yet another Matter of Britain right now. Nor have I been for the past five or six months, which is how long I’ve taken to read half the book.

I’ve have a bunch of books on order since the beginning of December – for example, the new Robin Hobb, the Charles de Lint Newford collection that came out in November, and the new Robert Jordan (which claims to be an end, but my sources indicate that the claim is ludicrous). (My view on reading Jordan at this point: I am in blood / Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o’er. (Macbeth III.v.) I’m also re-reading Ceri’s novel. And I did another scan through my bookshelves and found Broken Blade, the third book of an Ann Marston trilogy that I put down half-read four years ago, having lost my reading momentum when she decided to change from third-person to first-person narration after the first two novels, which jarred me at the time. And my mother sent me home with a set of mystery novels by Dianne Day which look good, so maybe I’ll tackle those next.

Reading’s just been sort of fnyeh lately. You know?

In complete contrast to my last post:

It was orchestra last night, and we’ve begun auditioning new conductors. There are two finalists for the position: the temporary conductor who led the orchestra for our last concert (who is one of our violists, and who has guest-conducted with us before); and another prominent West Island musician who has led various choirs, concerts, bands, Savoy productions, etcetera.

The formula? Each auditionee conducts the second movement of the Mendelssohn symphony that we played at the last concert; another movement of the same symphony, which we’ve played through but not worked on; and introduces a new piece of music for the orchestra to sight-read.

Last night, the surprise music our applicant conductor brought in was the overture to Mozart’s Don Giovanni, which just happens to be one of my favourite pieces of music ever.

I was bouncing off walls when I got in the car at the end of the evening. I had played Don Giovanni. And it had sounded pretty darned spectacular for sight-reading and a half-hour of working on it. It’s an energetic overture with plenty of drama, challenging in its precision but not overly discouraging in the technical aspect.

I enjoyed the evening immensely. The conductor had charm, great musical sense, and had us sounding terrific by the end of the evening. I wonder how much of that was an unconscious desire on our part to impress him, though, and more focus being given to a new face, familiarity breeding contempt, and all that. From experience, I know that our temporary conductor is just as talented, but in a different way. The entire orchestra grades these applicants and submits recommendations, and it’s going to be a tough choice.

We’ll see what transpires next week, when our temporary conductor officially auditions.

I woke up this morning with an uncomfortable memory, and I can�t shake it, so I�m going to try �writing it out�.

When I was in grade three, a boy on our bus came up to me and asked me if I wanted a piece of gum. I was surprised and shyly pleased, and went to take one.

Now, this pack of gum was one of those trick rigged things you can order from the back of comic books: it had a spring and a trap set in it to snap your finger when you reached in. The wire caught me on the sensitive skin just below the fingernail, and as a child I had an extremely low pain threshold. As I withdrew my hand, bewildered, hurt, with tears in my eyes and my finger already bright red and stinging, he laughed and laughed and said that he was going to play the same trick on our teacher when we arrived at school.

I sat on the bus and wrestled with my thoughts, cradling my finger to my chest. The hurt was beginning to be seasoned with a bit of anger as well. I wouldn�t wish the pain (physical and emotional) on anyone, especially not a teacher. I loved school; yes, gentle readers, I was a Hermione at school, down to the waving hand to answer questions. I loved all my teachers for opening new doors and presenting vistas of exciting information, and I didn�t want a single one of them betrayed, tricked, hurt as I had been hurt on multiple levels. Morally, I couldn�t stand by with the knowledge that someone might be hurt, and not act to prevent it.

So when we arrived in class, I went up to the teacher and warned her.

I don�t know what happened afterwards, but later that morning while we were working at our desks in calm silence, the boy slammed down his pencil and said, �Big mouth � big mouth � big mouth!�, each louder than before, punctuating his words with a fist on the desk. The students dropped their work. The teacher sat watching me, her arms crossed across her chest, and informed me that it was unjust to ruin other people�s pranks. You didn�t snitch on other kids.

I burst into tears. I hadn�t wanted her to be hurt. I had been protecting her. I remember glancing at my finger, already developing a tiny bruise across my finger, just under the nail. And then, I realised that she was smirking at me. She had planned this. She had directed this little performance. She was enjoying my state of shock, my humiliation, this further betrayal – betrayal by a grown-up.

At the time, all I knew was that I was being punished for doing something that I thought was right for someone I loved. Twenty-three years later, looking back, I am absolutely horrified at her behaviour. She humiliated students frequently, had favourites (of which I was certainly not one), taught unevenly, and made herself feel powerful by regularly manipulating her students against one another, passing on overheard comments and weakening defences by inferring meaning to them. Compared to the other teachers in the school she was young; she must have been about twenty-six at the time. I think we were the first class of her own, for she had been on the supply list the year before. This was behaviour I would have expected from a fellow student, but never, never from a teacher. Almost any other teacher would have thanked me for my concern and the information, and then later pretended to be surprised by the joke when presented with it by the other party, and no one would have been the wiser. Instead, she chose to humiliate.

Now, of course, I understand that she illustrates a type of personality that I have since encountered and dealt with, having learned a hard lesson and developed the beginnings of the requisite scar tissue at the age of eight. It taught me that you can�t automatically trust people in authority, which, along with the humiliation, was the hardest aspect of lesson to grasp. I had been raised to understand that I could go to almost any adult for help at any time, be it a Block Parent, a teacher, or family. This woman shattered that trust. Fortunately, she was in the minority among my teachers. There were some forgettable ones, only one or two bad ones, but overall, I had wonderful professors who encouraged and led by example as I was growing up.

Writing it out does help. I can look at it objectively, now, and see why it hurt so much on so many different levels. The episode is one of those crystal-clear childhood snapshots that you carry with you, one of those incidents that stays with you no matter how much else you forget, no matter how much you try to shake it.

Speaking of forgetting, I know that the boy had forgotten about it a few days later. For the teacher, it was just another little success, knocking a student�s self-esteem down, and she had probably forgotten about it by the end of the day. I have never forgotten it.

But then, I�ve always been too trusting, and I�ve always been hyper-sensitive. Silly me, expecting people to treat each other with care and respect, no matter what their age.

I have butterflies in my tummy. Ceri is going to read my novel today.

And yet, at the same time, I’m all excited. This afternoon, I get to read Ceri’s novel.

Ceri and I have been passing writing back and forth for seven months now, and we’ve been doing a decent job of keeping each other on track. (By the way, Ceri, since you’re getting 224 pages of young adult novel this afternoon, I’m going to hold back the 23 pages of the December chapter of the Great Canadian Novel that I wrote over the holidays for another time. Too much of a good thing, and all that, you know.)

Now, my husband has read this novel, and he enjoyed it, which was a tremendous reassurance; but Ceri’s a writer, as I am, so she’ll be simultaneously reading it for the story and with an eye to the technique, as well. Which is what I want, of course.

My butterflies don’t know whether to panic or jump up and down. While they work it out, I’m going to have a cup of tea and set to printing this ungainly child of my imagination.

Well, that was an incredibly productive six hours.

Now I’ll take a break, and back to work…