Got 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....
NOT-SO-GUILTY PLEASURES
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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