Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Not-So-Guilty Pleasures: The Sandra Waugh Edition

Greetings, all!

Lark RisingGot some more Not-So-Guilty Pleasures for you! As I'm sure you've figured out by now, I'm a pretty big fan of the fantasy genre - and young adult fantasy holds a particularly special place in my heart. Brings back memories of trekking out to the elementary school roller skating party only to find a dim corner in which to read. Ahhhh, bliss.

So, I'm super excited to welcome Sandra Waugh here today, and it pretty much goes without saying that I can't wait to read Lark Rising when it comes out next September. Having to wait six months is a little rough, but luckily we have the opportunity to get to know Ms. Waugh a little better, which should tide us over for awhile. Or maybe just give us a yen for gummi bears....


I can find countless pleasures in a day and can feel guilty about pretty much anything, so I thought it might be best to frame (or, rather, limit) some not-so-guilty pleasures by drawing one from each of the five senses.

Sight—Blockbuster movies.  I WAIT for May, for November when the ‘big’ films come out.  Sci fi, fantasy, monsters of metal or bone… I eat this stuff up.  (Actually, I grab popcorn—the tub size). And I drag my children to the theater with me, so I don’t look totally insane.

Taste—Gummi Bears.  Have to be the original Haribo!  I swoon.

Touch—Luxury hotels.  This requires a little explanation (and a big splurge):  I love traveling, but I am not a camper.  I truly admire anyone who is.  On the other hand, while I cringe at sleeping out of doors, I LOVE mucking about on vacation.  Slog me through any jungle, rat-infested alley, spider-ed tomb, cave and/or mudpit during the day AS LONG as I arrive at hot water and clean sheets by nightfall.  The nicer the bath and softer the sheets, the better, and the more fun it is to rough it in daylight.  My husband has learned this about me and has risen to the challenge.  I adore him.

Sound—Birds. The guilt is not so for much the glorious singing that goes on in our backyard, but that I lose track of time (and all responsibilities) standing listening, trying to sort them out, trying to memorize and revel.  It’s a symphony. It breathes SPRING.

Smell—it would be nicer to wax rhapsodic about lilacs and lavender, but for a not-so-guilty admission, I have to choose the scent of boxwood—that thick evergreen hedge that can be shaved into all sorts of chess pieces and mazes like here. It’s lovely and whimsical that boxwoods are so green and dense and happy to hold whatever shape you give it, but the best thing of all is the smell.  Some liken it to cat pee, some are allergic… but I am in love with the scent of boxwood. It stops me cold in mid-stride through a garden—I have to stand and inhale… and then feel my heart hurt, because for me a boxwood holds the scent of yore—of Tudor England, of King Arthur, of long gowns and longer paths through forgotten herbs and wildflowers. It is the scent of mystery and romance and yearning, and all the things that ever inspired me to write… and dream.

Want more info? Go wandering in these directions:

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