A 1910 privately printed edition book of William Carlos Williams poetry, valued at $25,000…and other accidentally burnt books. Oops.

Noveller is an online macroblogging service that lets users post their impromptu novels during the course of their day. Oh, wait, it’s not real. Damn.

Eminem (of “Smack That” and “Crack a Bottle” fame) has some tips for you on becoming a writing and marketing machine.

Sherlock Holmes, the Marlboro Man, and Dr. Frankenstein’s monster are just a few of the 101 most influential people who never lived.

Five modern masters of mystery and crime fiction.

Depressing Funny glossary of book publishing terms.

New York Magazine presents seven short stories featuring contemporary political figures.

Aaaand to help get you through the rest of the week (which I guess is today, with Thanksgiving and all), your pick-me-up. This has been making the rounds for a few days now, but I don’t care. Because it’s awesome. If you’ve seen it already, watch it again: Read more »

This is your brain on books.

Jane Austen’s Emma comes to the big screen…in Bollywood. I am very excited to see Emma and Mr. Knightley dance and sing. For reals.

O helo thar: a good old fashioned book burnin’ at a Baptist Church in North Carolina. Books to be burned include such “heretical works” as Rick Warren, Mother Theresa, and, uh, the Bible. Book burning: ur doin it rong.

Maurice Sendak says he does “not tolerate” the opinion that Where the Wild Things Are is too scary for children, and concerned parents should “go to hell.”

The question is asked, again: is Twitter ruining literacy? We say, again: nope.

Boys like zombies because they’re both “dumb, brutal, ugly, and mindlessly violent.” Girls like vampires because they’re a proxy for the gay men they secretly want to date. Okay.

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My Grandfather in Venice Way Back When

I have always suspected the missing links between the scattered parts of my being lay within the life of my maternal grandfather.

My paternal grandparents are open books – my grandmother with her inexorable tongue and my grandfather with eyes that can’t betray a single emotion.  My maternal grandmother is a storyteller on speed – something always reminds her of something else and various tangents can be made within a single sentence.  My paternal grandfather, however, was a little less clear in his communication.  My uncle used to joke that all it took to keep my grandfather happy was his daily newspaper and a bowl of mixed nuts.  For years, I believed this to be the case – but as I got older, I suspected something much more existed within his alleged simplicity.

After he passed away in the fall of 2005, my aunt emailed our family scanned photos she found of him.  The photos dated back to the forties and consisted mostly of posed portraits.  I was excited to find that I looked quite a bit like my young grandfather since I grew up looking not quite like either parent.

It was, however, in a photo where his face was less visible that I found myself identifying with him most: in the middle of Piazza San Marco, stood my grandfather in an ascot and a three-piece suit – tall and full of quiet confidence.  Though we all knew that my grandfather suffered from a hushed case of wanderlust, we never knew he ever had the means to treat it. Read more »