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The Great Okkervil River Conspiracy of Spring ’07 was designed by my best friend to keep this band from my innocent ears. She banned them from car stereos and playlists and mix CDs for months in a determined campaign that climaxed with a grand live show in a shack in Providence, RI. See, she figured I’d hate them, and would boycott any pilgrimage to see them if their indie musings ever entered my orbit. Obviously, she was wrong. Maybe if I’d had time to absorb their music, I would have spent that wonderful show focussing more on Will Scheff and his posse of melody makers, and less on making out with the random cute bearded boy (although then I suppose that whole weekend in Connecticut would never have happened…), but in the end, I didn’t take this band to heart until my next trip across the Atlantic in the Fall.
It was October, and a book of mine didn’t sell—as books of mine are wont to do sometimes. I took my iPod and the dull ache in my chest and slipped into a bookstore full of wood and crimson sweatshirts and a sweeping staircase. There was a corner upstairs I tucked myself into, surrounded by all those books that had sold, and I wrapped myself in Will and his plaintive stories and waited for the pain to ease a little. It took a while, and a few tears, but I suppose it did, because that’s just the way it goes. But I remember the intensity, of his prose and my small grief, and this recent rooftop serenade makes it all seem like yesterday.
Also, this Modern Love distils all the reasons why I try not to date a) indie hipsters and b) musicians into one neat tale of dude-ish casual incompetence. Unfortunately, Montreal seems to have nothing but, so I might have to relax that one…
Ashlee let me down. All that time I spent cheerleading teen-pop, defending her honor and persuading people that “really, she’s not bad at all!” and then she gives me this, this mess of an album. Sigh. I wanted Pete to be her Benji and/or Joel (I always get those Good Charlotte boys mixed up, and now that they’re double-dating Paris and Nicole, it’s like 2005 all over again). See, once he got involved in Hilary Duff’s work, she went all Killers-lite with interesting synth squiggles and electro musings, and Fall Out Boy may be approaching their cultural nadir of annoyance (shilling for Walmart? With Rumur Willis and the awesome-yet-undeniably-Z-list Kristin Cavalleri? Oh really!), but they write damn good pop songs.
But it was not to be.
Other than that, spring is finally springing. There is green on the trees, and in the afternoon, I can sit bare-legged on my balcony and eat home-made grape popsicles and try not to drip pink splashes onto the pages of wonderful books like ‘The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks’. I enjoyed E Lockhart’s Boyfriend List books, but they pale in comparison to the magnificence of this tome, which is more explicitly feminist than any YA I’ve read in a while and yet maintains joyfulness through steam-tunnel escapades, sassiness, really well-written boys and a blissful absence of any silly morality concerns. Seriously, seek it out. Read it. Marvel.
(She’s right over there in my links list.)
My schedule is pretty flexible, which is usually great because it allows me to shift things around based how beautiful the weather is, what time I ended up in bed or which episodes of what downloaded overnight. Most of the time, I manage to keep things pretty balanced, but then there are the times I’m working to a deadline (either for my editor, or like now, one of my agents), and all of my good habits disappear.
Say hello to Zombie Me.
My roommate pointed me to this great article about freelancing, which wisely says, “it’s critical for your mental health to leave the house at least once a day and interact with real, live humans — even if you are only talking about Starbucks “. I read aforementioned article at 5pm yesterday, still in my pajamas, having stared blankly at my screen and worked through for ten hours that day. Yes, not good. I used to believe in the café version of writing life. Who wouldn’t want such an idyllic work-day? Get up, take laptop, stroll to a local spot full of interesting artsy types and then sit, working productively all day, fuelled by baked goods and vegan salad… Unfortunately, it doesn’t really work out that way for me. My café routine is more like: get up; eat something; check mail and blogs; look for something to wear; realise that I need to do laundry; put laundry in; take a shower; realise I still need to wear something; assemble an outfit of available clean clothes way too formal for mooching around a café; check mail and blogs; have some early lunch; leave; arrive at café and set up; check mail and blogs (it’s been a whole fifteen minutes!); buy drinks; gaze at cakes; gaze at cute men; gaze briefly at my work-in-progress; gaze at cakes again… You get the picture. It’s like I’m doomed to be either a productive, unwashed, anti-social zombie or a fragrant, friendly girl who never hits her daily word-count. The choice!
On a brighter note, I had a great weekend that featured my first Prom. Yes, it was a post-ironic hipster fashion erotic zine event, but still: Prom! There were streamers and lights and dance-cards and nothing but slow-dances all night. See, being English, I never had a real Prom. There were a couple of formal dances when I was in school, but they were always boat party events; I decided that since I wasn’t a good swimmer, being trapped in a confined space with so many people I hated and surrounded by water wasn’t exactly the recipe for a night of fun and frolics. I also went to one formal ball at Oxford, which took place in the dead of winter—outside. I was invited by a boy with whom I’d been involved in one of those ‘is something more going to happen?’ back-and-forths for literally months so I figured that The Most Amazing Ballgown In The World would decide it one way or the other (floor-length, fitted black satin, like something Catherine Zeta-Jones would wear to the Oscars). It did, he didn’t.
The lesson here? Never cook garlic-lemon roasted chicken for anyone you’re not already making out with!
It’s kind of strange to be doing a formal introduction after three years of blogging. Anyone who’s read the poptext archives probably knows more than they should me from an emotional perspective, (because the pretence of anonymity is a powerful thing) but now I’m putting a name to this, I figure it’s time to fill in the blanks. I’ll be the first to admit that the blurb on the About Abby page is somewhat obnoxious (and the authors amongst you will know that panic that descends when your agent wants a bio), so I thought I’d do a translation to round it out…
Abby McDonald was born and raised in Sussex, England
In a hippie village utopia, to be precise. We have rolling hills, organic farms, a co-operative health food store and, once a year, a barn dance. No, really. It’s ridiculously charming, but impossible to take for more than a month at a time without a) becoming addicted to daytime TV, b) getting pregnant to pass the time, or c) developing a low-level dope habit.
and studied Politics and Philosophy at Oxford University. She began writing at college, becoming music editor of the student newspaper and completing her first manuscript at nineteen.
Getting involved with music writing probably got me through college. In addition to meeting a great group of people (who weren’t committed to saving the world/running five different student organizations/becoming an investment banker), I discovered that it was possible to interview your favorite bands. As a career! In my first year, I also decided to write the Uber Chick-Lit novel. That was actually its title on my computer for a really long time. Anyway, what ensued was the kind of traumatic saga that most writers go through when they’re starting out. Mine spanned two years, three agents and more tears than I can count, and in the end, it never even made it out to editors. Again, common in this business.
(FYI, the YA that’s being published next year (working title, Sophomore Switch) is actually Book Four, but I’ll tell that story another time!)
After deciding that the ‘real world’ of nine-to-five would interrupt her busy schedule of napping and watching teen DVD box-sets, Abigail graduated to writing full-time.
Also known as ‘moving back home for a year after graduation and trying to avoid options a, b and c listed above’. I was a receptionist, data clerk, editorial assistant and sub-editor in my sleepy village while my friends swanned around London being all urban and interesting. So I wrote more books.
Since then, her work has appeared in the NME, CosmoGirl and Plan B magazines.
There was a period when I figured working in teen magazines was the career for me. After all, it would put to use the vast array of celebrity gossip and pop culture trivia I have floating around in my head, and then I would be totally vindicated. “See, mom—watching that Laguna Beach marathon was RESEARCH!” But a few weeks of interning kind of put an end to that dream. It’s one thing to entertain a passing interest in Gossip Girl or who Jessica Simpson is dating, it’s quite another to have that be the sum total of your entire working day.
Her debut novel will be published by Candlewick Press (US) and Walker Books (UK) in Spring 2009.
I still sort of squeee with delight every time I see this sentence.
She just moved to Montreal, where she is eating her way around the city. And adjusting to writing about herself in the third person.
I spent a lot of last year in Boston, but then immigration got annoyed with me coming in and spending all my money on books and baked goods, so I’m trying life further north. I’ve been here, oh, nearly three weeks, and so far it is awesome. They’re big on smoked meats and bacon here, so how could it not be? I’m still finding my feet (the snow has melted, helpfully) so if you’re here, or know someone great who is, get in touch!
What else? I just turned 23; I watch more downloaded TV than you possibly imagine; I miss my cat; I can’t whistle; I was a cheerleader, for a very brief time (M and A and G and D! What is our philosophy? Victory!); my bangs need a trim; thanks to pesky migraines, I can’t have caffeine, chocolate, cheese or (much) alcohol.
And that is all.
So after a lifetime of indoctrination by Baz Luhrmann movies, I signed up to ballroom classes at the Y. After all, I have to prepare to be spun, and twirled, and swooped under a sparkly Coca-Cola sign at dawn, and rally in the final moments of the Open Amateur Latin Division at the Pan-Pacific Grad Prix. Right?
But the thing I’ve discovered, with tango at least, is that I’m a somewhat, umm, problematic partner. It’s the following, see. I don’t follow too well. OK, I don’t really follow at all, and in a dance where the woman’s only task is to be an extremely sensitive, responsive, malleable doll to be steered around the room by her (forceful, stern, ohso masculine) partner, that doesn’t exactly work out too well. In life, I can maintain the illusion of following just fine: people who know me probably think I’m fairly acquiescent and easy-going. “No, you choose!” “Whatever you want.” “I don’t mind at all.”
But I lie! Truth is, I’ll only do what you want if a) I’m completely ambivalent on the matter, or b) it matches up with my own secret plans. And being steered around a dancefloor like a frigidaire takes some adjustment.
Something that also takes adjustment? Deciphering Montreal accents so that when my partner tells me I am a frigidaire, I don’t slap him.
But I will not be defeated. Tonight is samba, and in samba, I can actually move—without patriarchal permission! Of course, moving equals dropping dead of exhaustion, since my lazy, slothful, full-time writer’s ass has merely waddled between the couch, my bed and various cake-laden café tables for oh, the past year, but I suppose that’s the whole point. Abby’s body, meet endorphins; endorphins, meet Abby–try not to keel over with the shock of it.
I know, time is a precious, wonderful prize to be treasured and savoured but OH MY, I just spent nine minutes watching the cast of Gossip Girl swivel and pout in front of green-screen.
And it was glorious.
Behold!
I don’t know if it was for discarded title credits or what, but wow. Kelly Rutherford looks like she’s trying to pass for 25; Chase Crawford is wandering lost from a Prom Date Of Your Dream stock photography shoot and Ed Westwick’s head is getting tilted around by invisible puppet strings of brooding! And Penn, oh Penn…
I can see the director now: “Don’t worry kid, just gaze into the camera as if you see some pie, far off, getting closer. It’s blueberry, you love that. The pie’s getting closer! Warm, rich, delicious pie. Mmmmm!”
…..
I think I want some pie.
ps - a prize to who gets the title!
So Michael is looking very dapper this evening, but nobody in a neck scarf like that deserves to be taken seriously, so his sincerity is lost on me. Also, those high notes! Sheesh, way to inspire an uncomfortable conversation about Simon’s saggy chest. Oh, Ryan, what are you thinking?
Syesha. Uber-diva song. White pants. Bored now.
Oh god, the Hobbit has a ukelele. And I have a confession. The reason I recoil so totally from this boy is that I sort of dated a guy like this in college. No dreads, but mine maybe might have had a goatee. And a guitar. And a deep love of Phish. I know, :hangs head in shame: And you want to know that really bad part? He broke my heart. So Jason is a no.
But Kristie is a yes. She’s sort of my favorite now, what with her devious song choices and fabulous self-awareness. I prefer evil geniuses to you know, sincere good performers, and you can’t tell me that picking such a heartfelt, ‘can’t kick this puppy’ track isn’t part of her fabulous masterplan to outlive all the better singers.
David could use some of her strategy, and her stylist. Please, stop dressing like a member of Panic At the Disco and singing like you’re in a late 90’s industrial act. And shave. And wash your hands. Pull yourself together, boy. This is yours to lose.
(Did Paula get ‘definitive’ on her word-of-the-day toilet paper?)
Carly is gone. That is all.
Oh David, indecision does not become you. Nor does picking a British classic, and wimping out on it. The white, the piano, the halo hovering above you, bathing us all in the purity and wonder that is—
Ahem.
Yes, I hate him. Yes, he may well win. Sigh.
And Brooke rounds it out with kittens and rainbows and snugglies. Cute, but it’s getting old. Plus, give Marsha Brady her dress back.
Tomorrow: Schlock celebrity overkill! Yay! My roommate is already cowering in fear.
Poptext is dead, long live Poptext!
So, the old music-only incarnation is dead; the shiny, new music-plus-so-much-more blog is here. Maybe you migrated over, maybe you’re new–either way, it’s good to have you. Nobody likes to party alone (unless you’re playing ‘Pop Goes My Heart’, in which case, an empty room is all you need).
And if you’ve arrived at this paragraph without clicking that link, shame on you. It’s not a rick-roll, I promise, although as my roommate said - in awe - as she gazed upon the glory that is ‘Hugh Grant in note-perfect 80’s Wham-esque band tribute’, why anyone is bothering with the Rick Astley clip when they could be circulating this, we do not know. Anyway, I’m not going to bother with a big mission statement of what you can expect here, because that only leads to dead, umm, webspace. Basically, it will involve musings on pop culture, YA books & writing, music and oh maybe some feministy politics. If I must.
You will soon discover: I consume more trashy media content than you ever thought possible. It’s what being a full-time writer is all about. That, and the tax-deductible One Tree Hill box-sets…
