Is how many years D and I have been married. (Although we’ve known each other much longer.*)
I think six is very romantic (assuming that numbers can be romantic), but not quite as romantic as this song.
Happy Anniversary, D!
*Picture of us back in the day, courtesy of Rye.
As anyone who has ever met me can tell you, I like things.
I like horror movies and Sweet Tarts and cigars and eggnog-chai and Christian Bale. I like couture sewing and heirloom tomatoes. I like dogs. I like way more things than I dislike—so many things that if I were to assemble a detailed and comprehensive list, it would take me three months and would be far too long to ever read.
So, in lieu of that detailed list, today I’m going to narrow it down and share one particular well-liked thing.
Confession: I have a deep, abiding love of cover songs. I collect them. I hoard them. I covet them. (Also, I’m a huge fan of retellings, modern versions, graphic-novelizations, and movie remakes, but that’s a post for another day.)
The concept of the cover song appeals to me on a very frivolous level. Like musicals about cannibalism, or wearing combat boots with petticoats, the perfect cover song is a seamless melding of totally disparate things. It demonstrates profound understanding of the source material, but also wild departure. Honestly, there’s probably a term paper or a dissertation somewhere in all this, but that would take a long time and I would have to cite sources. Instead, because I’m currently-drafting and all-the-time lazy, I’m going to keep it simple.
Now, the simple thing.
I am going to share with you my favorite cover song in the history of cover songs:
It is performed by one of my favorite bands of all time, and it exemplifies that glorious combination of the wry, the highly-stylized, and my personal favorite, the “why would you ever cover that?”
By which I mean, this:
What about you: Do you like cover songs—or do you hate them? Which ones? Why?
At 4:30 tomorrow morning, I’m taking off for the airport with freshly-painted fingernails, two boxes of Panda licorice, my winter hat, and a packet of rose-petal tea.*
Once gone, my plans include late nights and caffeine at an insurmountably awesome and incredibly massive writing retreat, immediately followed by the Breathless Reads tour.
There will be all kinds of bloggy activities during the retreat,** and once I’m on tour, I plan to keep things current via twitter, but my lack of smartphone might complicate things, so if anyone’s curious about where I happen to be at any given time, you can always take a look at the event schedule on my website.
Somehow, this all sounds very egomaniacal, like you need to be apprised of my movements, when in fact, it’s mostly for my mother. (Hi, mom!)
However, if you’re in New York, Minneapolis, Denver, Salt Lake, or Raleigh, and feel like coming to a signing, the other Breathless Reads authors and I would love to meet you.
To everyone else, keep warm, and I’ll see you when I get back!
*And, you know, some other stuff.
**Not necessarily on my blog, you understand . . . What am I even saying? You all know how it works around here—Tess and Maggie diligently keep you informed with captioned photographs, amusing stories, and up-to-date information. Then, sometime later, I come along and repeat what they said.
Finally, my true, actual post about New Orleans—with pictures!
Now, I stole these from everyone involved (mostly Maggie) (really just . . . all from Maggie), so there’s a good chance we’ll be getting some duplicates around the internet, but they were too good not to share, so I’m co-opting them for my own use.
First, this group shot because it is . . . representative:
(Jackson Pearce, Carrie Ryan, Tessa Gratton, me, Maggie Stiefvater)
But for now, this picture pretty much sums it up:
Okay, so . . . it gives me great personal satisfaction to announce that at long (long, long, long) last, I’m on submission! Like, real. Official. Submission. To publishing houses!
Which means all kinds of fun possibilities, like adequate sleep and a return to rational thought, but especially that I get to have a life again, and read books and go out with friends, and other far less glamorous things, like raking the flowers beds.
Overall, I feel that I’m taking this on-submission thing rather well. I am composed. In fact, Tess and Maggie have both expressed alarm at my general tranquility (read: glacial). I started thinking about that. If I’m honest, I do tend to meet most large-scale developments with far more composure than, say, getting a flat tire or finding out that Vitaminwater has discontinued their line of energy drinks. Actually, it’s pretty unreasonable.
So, in honor of my contextually inappropriate self-possession, today I’m offering up definitive proof that I can be just as histrionic as anyone else. What follows is for posterity, and most especially for Tess and Maggie.
Now, I am going to tell you the Centipede Story.
Brenna Yovanoff 