Are you ready for this?
…you sadist bastards.
Chapter 2: Open Book
11 February, 2012
05 February, 2012
I Just Remembered Something Sad....
It's been a year to the day. The thought is making me want to cry again, want to mourn the disaster that was 2011.
What disaster? some of you are probably thinking. 2011 was great! Well, my lovelies, I've got one word for you: Borders. The closing of this great store in and of itself would make the whole year a debacle, even without the addition of two deaths.
Yes, I realize that people are taken from us daily. Yeah, some of you may have lost people very close to you. No, I'm not an unfeeling bitch, I'm just very, very sad right now, and have decided to take care of myself for the moment. (Do you see this, Mom? Are you proud? Or am I being "selfish" again?)
The later death (I seem to be going about this backwards...): Elisabeth Sladen, the wonderful woman who played Sarah Jane Smith on Doctor Who and The Sarah Jane Adventures, was my hero and role model. When I learned that she had passed away, I spent the weekend watching everything with her in it that I could get my hands on. I wanted to do something, make it so that I'd never forget her. I could change what people called me again. It had been so easy to switch from "Sarah" to "Cat", I could do it again, and in a way that would honor her. Any form of "Elisabeth" was out of the question. That's nowhere in my name. I could be "Sarah" again, like she was to the Doctor, but I wanted a little more. Why not use my middle nae as well? Then I could be "Sarah Kate." And so I am.
On to the earlier death, and the point of this post. One year ago today was the death of the author Brian Jacques. He was a man whose name I have known for about as long as I have been able to read. He was the author of my favorite books, the inspiration for my childhood games, the means of bonding between myself and my cousin. He is the reason I've gotten as far as I have, almost reached adulthood, still alive and breathing, and not six feet under by my own hand.
You'll often hear me say that one of the highest compliments I've ever been paid was when my friend Morgan said that I remind her of J.K. Rowling (yes, I realize she's not the best author in the world, bad writing style and whatever, but I don't think you comprehend the enormity of the fucks I do not give. The woman's a genius). If you come on me at the right time (though how you'd have managed it, I shudder to think. Creep) you'll see me stare at the shelf in my school library that contains all the Tamora Pierce books and hear me murmur, "I want to be just like her someday."
But before I was reading Harry Potter, before I'd even heard of Tortall, I had practically devoured Redwall, Mossflower, Martin the Warrior, Mattimeo, and so many others. I'd seen this world created by a single man, this woodland and this abbey and this ancient volcano and the rivers and streams and oceans and all the creatures inhabiting each, I'd seen them and read of them and learned about them and thought, "I want to do this someday. I want to be just like him." I wanted to write, to show everyone a culture I had created, me, just me, and to give the future kids who'd be in my shoes the joy I'd experienced at the other end of this man's pen.
He taught me so much without even knowing it. He taught me how to paint a picture with words, how to develop characters, how to make backstories interesting, the beautiful use of character death, how to create aspects of a story, but keep them casually off to the side, because, really they're not that important but you should know about them oh wait that actually had a lot to do with the story so glad he mentioned it. He taught me what it means to be someone a kid can look up to. He was the type of person you could idolize, and dream up to be so awesome and wonderful, and when you met him, was really was that awesome and wonderful, and he was kind and interesting and cheerful and funny, too. He was the kind of role model who you could meet, the exception that proves the rule that declares that you should never meet your heroes.
His books are young adult books. They can be found in the children's section at Barnes&Noble. They're aimed at ten- to thirteen-year-olds. And yet, Here I am, 81 days from becoming "an adult in the eyes of the law" and I'm still rereading them, still finding new and wonderful things.
So, all this just to say something simple: Here's to you, Mr. Jacques, thank you, rest in peace, and I hope you don't mind if I cry occasionally.
What disaster? some of you are probably thinking. 2011 was great! Well, my lovelies, I've got one word for you: Borders. The closing of this great store in and of itself would make the whole year a debacle, even without the addition of two deaths.
Yes, I realize that people are taken from us daily. Yeah, some of you may have lost people very close to you. No, I'm not an unfeeling bitch, I'm just very, very sad right now, and have decided to take care of myself for the moment. (Do you see this, Mom? Are you proud? Or am I being "selfish" again?)
The later death (I seem to be going about this backwards...): Elisabeth Sladen, the wonderful woman who played Sarah Jane Smith on Doctor Who and The Sarah Jane Adventures, was my hero and role model. When I learned that she had passed away, I spent the weekend watching everything with her in it that I could get my hands on. I wanted to do something, make it so that I'd never forget her. I could change what people called me again. It had been so easy to switch from "Sarah" to "Cat", I could do it again, and in a way that would honor her. Any form of "Elisabeth" was out of the question. That's nowhere in my name. I could be "Sarah" again, like she was to the Doctor, but I wanted a little more. Why not use my middle nae as well? Then I could be "Sarah Kate." And so I am.
On to the earlier death, and the point of this post. One year ago today was the death of the author Brian Jacques. He was a man whose name I have known for about as long as I have been able to read. He was the author of my favorite books, the inspiration for my childhood games, the means of bonding between myself and my cousin. He is the reason I've gotten as far as I have, almost reached adulthood, still alive and breathing, and not six feet under by my own hand.
You'll often hear me say that one of the highest compliments I've ever been paid was when my friend Morgan said that I remind her of J.K. Rowling (yes, I realize she's not the best author in the world, bad writing style and whatever, but I don't think you comprehend the enormity of the fucks I do not give. The woman's a genius). If you come on me at the right time (though how you'd have managed it, I shudder to think. Creep) you'll see me stare at the shelf in my school library that contains all the Tamora Pierce books and hear me murmur, "I want to be just like her someday."
But before I was reading Harry Potter, before I'd even heard of Tortall, I had practically devoured Redwall, Mossflower, Martin the Warrior, Mattimeo, and so many others. I'd seen this world created by a single man, this woodland and this abbey and this ancient volcano and the rivers and streams and oceans and all the creatures inhabiting each, I'd seen them and read of them and learned about them and thought, "I want to do this someday. I want to be just like him." I wanted to write, to show everyone a culture I had created, me, just me, and to give the future kids who'd be in my shoes the joy I'd experienced at the other end of this man's pen.
He taught me so much without even knowing it. He taught me how to paint a picture with words, how to develop characters, how to make backstories interesting, the beautiful use of character death, how to create aspects of a story, but keep them casually off to the side, because, really they're not that important but you should know about them oh wait that actually had a lot to do with the story so glad he mentioned it. He taught me what it means to be someone a kid can look up to. He was the type of person you could idolize, and dream up to be so awesome and wonderful, and when you met him, was really was that awesome and wonderful, and he was kind and interesting and cheerful and funny, too. He was the kind of role model who you could meet, the exception that proves the rule that declares that you should never meet your heroes.
His books are young adult books. They can be found in the children's section at Barnes&Noble. They're aimed at ten- to thirteen-year-olds. And yet, Here I am, 81 days from becoming "an adult in the eyes of the law" and I'm still rereading them, still finding new and wonderful things.
So, all this just to say something simple: Here's to you, Mr. Jacques, thank you, rest in peace, and I hope you don't mind if I cry occasionally.
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