Letters from the Lion

Little Pig, Little Pig…

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 07:45:00 +0000

If not the worst romance novel cover, ever, then at least in the top 20:

Is It Wrong to Love a Book Box?

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 07:17:00 +0000

I order a lot of books. I ship a lot of books. I have a lot of bubble wrap, envelopes, cardboard, kraft paper, packing peanuts, and tape. Lots of tape, but that's another blog.

I say all that to say this: I am very, VERY picky when it comes to how my books are packaged, both thems what I sends and thems what I gets. Good, bad, ugly--I've seen 'em all, or at least this is what I thought before this morning.

I'll spare you the rant on bad packaging for now, Gentle Reader, because this post is about the bit of bookish joy I just experienced at receiving a book that was actually shipped--mostly--properly. This is always a nice surprise in itself.

But--the paradigm-shifting part--was the book box used. Amazon, eat your heart out. This puppy uses some sort of tessaract/fractal valmorphanizing technology to SNICK! flap instantly into a shape perfectly adjusted to fit nearly any size of book, and then SNICK! flip back into a flat single sheet, all from merely receiving one's thoughts of boxness or flatness toward the cardboard miracle (well, nearly). I'm enchanted and have wasted several minutes trying to fit my feet into the thing in hopes that it will heal my limp, too. No dice yet in that department, but I remain optimistic and will soon be trying it on my head as well. Oh, and don't worry--I, too, have watched Tron, Dear Reader--I tested it with an orange, first, and am pleased to report no inside-out peely masses of gory fruit goo here.

(re-posted from the myspace blog)

Recent Reads

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 01:10:00 +0000

Reading a few books again, finally--this is something I've decided heck or high water to start doing, work load notwithstanding. I used to read voraciously, but have not recently had the time. Still don't, but whatever. What's the fun of having a bookstore if one can't read the durn things? So. Current reading list:

The Down-Home Zombie Blues,

Clicking,

Death on Demand,

Mind Hunters,

Read-Aloud Handbook,

The Road

Death on Demand was...oh...say a 2 out of four (lion) paws. Mmeh. I love bibliomysteries, so it was already in the plus column there, but it was too easy to figure out, and some of the book shop nittygritty didn't strike me as realistic. I'll be reading the rest of the series, though, so it was fair enough to make that cut.

Trelease's Read-Aloud Handbook is a classic. I pick it up off and on for inspiration when I'm working on the children's section. Literacy and the love of reading has been on my mind recently, hence this book choice.

Sinclair's SciFi zombie romance was recommended to me by a customer. Sorry, whomever you were, but I haven't yet been able to get into this one. I'll give it another chapter or so, though.

Mind Hunters was one I picked up to give to someone else, then after reading a few pages decided to read. It's been okay, I guess. I like some romances, but I can't really get into this one's love story. The action and detective parts are okay, though. One paw.

What else...oh. Clicking. Just barely started this one. Looks interesting.

Finished The Road. Hm. I have mixed feelings on this one. Pretty sure I would have enjoyed it more if I were a man. Frustrated with some of the choices made by the protagonist, but I suppose they were in keeping with his character. Not the best post-apocalyptic book I've read, but a very quick read and some great imagery. 2.5 paws up.

Also picked up a Native American cookbook yesterday. It has a recipe for yellow jacket soup. Yes. As in, the bug. Yech.

TTFN.

-S.

The Exeter Book

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 16:54:00 +0000

The Exeter Book is the largest collection of Old English writings, and contains the oldest surviving colletion of riddles written in O.E. Its other works such as the religious poems and elegies are certainly literary and historical treasures, but the riddles--an earthy mix of conundrum poems ranging from humorous to haunting--are unique.

The book itself is a riddle. It currently resides in the Exeter Cathedral library, probably donated originally by Leofric, the first Exeter bishop, c.1050 AD. Before that, however, it's provenance is a mystery made all the more curious by clues left on its binding: beer mug rings and cheese and bread smears in knife scores, to name a couple of odd markings.

This is one of my favorite riddle-poems from the Book of Exeter, as translated by Crossley-Holland:

An enemy ended my lfe, deprived me
of my physical strength; then he dipped me
in water and drew me out again,
and put me in the sun where I soon shed
all my hair.

After that, the knife's sharp edge
bit into me and all my blemishes scraped away;
fingers folded me and the bird's feather
often moved over my brown surface,
sprinkling meaningful marks; it swallowed more wood-dye
(part of the stream)
and again travelled over me
leaving black tracks.

Then a man bound me,
he stretched skin over me and adorned me
with gold; thus I am enriched by the wondrous work
of smiths, wound about with shining metal.

Now my clasp and my red dye
and these glorious adornments bring fame far and wide
to the Protector of Men, and not to the pains of Hell.

If only the sons of men would make use of me
they would be the safer and the more victorious,
their hearts would be bolder and thei minds more at ease,
their thoughts wiser, and they would have more friends,
companions and kinsmen (courageous, honourable,
trusty, kind) who would gladly increase
their honour and prosperity, and heap
benefits upon them, ever holding them
most dea.

Ask what I am called,
of such use to men.

My name is famous,
of service to men and sacred in itself.

Not the hardest riddle, and much wordier than most, but nevertheless one I enjoy. Here's another:

When I heard of that wonder
it struck me as a strange event:
That a worm should swallow the song of some man,
a thief gorge in the darkness on a great man's
speech of distinction. The thievish stranger
was not a whit the wiser for swallowing words.

Happy riddling!

Bradbury on Burroughs, and the Shepherdess on a Soapbox

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 16:40:00 +0000

"A number of people changed my life forever in various ways.
Lon Chaney put me up on the side of Notre Dame and swung me from a chandelier over the opera crowd in Paris.
Edgar Allan Poe mortared me into a brick vault with some Amontillado.
Kong chased me up one side and down the other of the Empire State Building.
But--Mr. Burroughs convinced me that I could talk with the animals, even if they didn't answer back, and that late nights when I was asleep my soul slipped from my body, slung itself out the window, and frolicked across town never touching the lawns, always hanging from trees where, even later in those nights, I taught myself alphabets and soon learned French and English and danced with the apes when the moon rose.
But then again, his greatest gift was teaching me to look at Mars and ask to be taken home.
I went home to Mars often when I was eleven and twelve and every year since, and the astronauts with me, as far as the Moon to start, but Mars by the end of the century for sure, Mars by 1999. We have commuted because of Mr. Burroughs. Because of him we have printed the Moon. Because of him and men like him, one day in the next five centuries, we will commute forever, we will go away...
And never come back.
And so live forever."
--Bradbury, in the intro to Porges' Edgar Rice Burroughs: The Man Who Created Tarzan

This was written in ‘75, back before talking with animals became an anthropomorphic faux pas, a time when even the greatest living sci-fi writer couldn’t imagine a future in which we didn't reach Mars by '99, or '00, or ‘01, or.... We live in a society where the night sky is a harbinger of fear, not wonder; we erase it with street lights whose wavelengths are--coincidentally?--those most hostile to human night vision. Primitive man had fire to ward away the demons, but he also had the stars to guide him home.

Why is this? When did our commutation change into an ostriching of heads under the ground? Even the moon seems dimmer. And though we talk endlessly about saving the jungle and its creatures, we do our damndest to isolate ourselves from anything that chitters or whispers or smacks its lips to say, I'm wild. What's worse: we do so under the guise of care, of human-ity. Really?

And yet, and yet...those wild things creep among us as we stumble around in night-blind bliss, and Mars still bides its time. We're not safer, just oblivious. To wit: I have a picture on my phone, showing what my street lamp conceals at night from apes afraid of trees. The heart of town, and here, a deer, invisible sans camera. I’ve no doubt she saw me well before I heard her rustlings and squinted uselessly into the bright yellow darkness with my dazzled eyes.

In daylight I find her hoof prints, dainty compared to the coyote tracks in my mud-filled gutter in the center of town.

Mars still waits.

take two

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 17:02:00 +0000

Well...we'll try this again. My not posting on this blog is bothering me far more than the bother of cutting and pasting, so I'm back again here. Sorry guys.

What can I say? I'm a bookseller, not a computer geek.

A Mystery and a Mystery Book Sale

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 04:50:00 +0000

The Shepherdess has been receiving at the Lion letters from fictional literary characters.

In honor of this odd filbert on her already odd life, she has been inspired to hold a Friends of the Lion Only Mystery Book sale this Monday, July 21st, from noon until 4pm at our antiquarian shop.

Over 1,000 hardback mystery novels will be in the sale for $1-$3 each.

Mark your calendars because this is a short, sweet sale that is being offered only to our blog readers and in-store customers. Feel free to bring a friend (or two, or more), but only those of you who know the pass phrase, "The butler did it," will be given an extra 40% off of any one item in our normal mystery shelves. This section includes many collectible titles, so if you've been eyeing that signed Cat Who... mystery by Lilian Jackson Braun, here's your chance.

...and if any of you know the author of the curious letters, please drop the Shepherdess a clue. Her puzzler is sore.

Simply Delish!

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 20:58:00 +0000

Okay, Local Lionheads: I just discovered a wonderful little shop here in the 'Ville--Simply Deli, located next to Scott's Flowers on the Square on College Street.

They have crepes (!), sandwiches, salads, and soup. I highly recommend the house salad--with cranberries, carrots, yummy dressing, and all sorts of other goodies on a bed of crisp greens. This is one of the tastiest salads I've ever eaten--and I know my salads! Anyway, with fresh, top-notch ingredients, professional service, clean settings, and genuine small-town warmth, this eatery deserves a visit.

Local Poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 18:05:00 +0000

The Peyote Milkshake Review, a local poetry zine published by uber-lionhead Mike Snyder, is now accepting submissions for the fall issue. Inquiries may be sent to Mike at mikeandlaura10 @ embarqmail.com (with spaces removed from addy, of course). And yes, this would be the same Mike who, during the course of his poetry slam/book release party, revealed that our sweet and erudite local Shakespeare prof is ACTUALLY...

DARTH MOUMIN!!!

Mystery Photo

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 03:48:00 +0000

Who: ???

What: ???

When: ???

Where: ???

I thought you guys might have fun figuring this one out. Can anyone identify what's going on in this picture, when it was taken, and which famous figures are present?

Here's a close up of the handshake:

Folks who solve the mystery get a virtual cake homemade by the Shepherdess, and her kudos.

Choose Your Own Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 03:51:00 +0000

Okay--time for a quick show of hands:

How many of you have a secret love for Choose Your Own Adventure-style books? 'Cause I know I do.

I used to have over a hundred of those wonderful time-sucks when I was a kid. Tragically, they were destroyed in a storm--all of them. : (

I recently added several to the children's shelves here at the Lion. Many of them were titles I once had. I've been tempted to buy them, myself, but have resisted thus far. Still...The Circus of Fear calls to me (You, too, can be held captive in an evil circus as a young orphan girl who trick rides on griffins and tames displacer beasts while fighting to bring to justice the secret ruling class of Greyhawk!) , as does that trippy literary left turn, You Are a Shark!.

I sold one of them today to another closet Choose Your Own fan, and we had a lively debate over which series was the best. I was partial to the Endless Quests, while she was a purist.

That sale prompted me to wonder: Anyone else out there with this particular guilty pleasure? Did you read them as intended (I did), or were you a rebel and went straight through them cover to cover? Or--horrors--did you defy all ethical standards and sneak peeks at the various outcomes before choosing your path?

1891 Incident, Part 3: Wherein the Mystery Is Revealed

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 22:43:00 +0000

(Special to the Lion blog by classy dame reporter, Sara Jay)

Some folks wait their entire lives for a story such as this one. Technically, so did I, but hopefully I have some living to do, yet.

It was just an ordinary day in the 'Ville. The Shepherdess had fed my guppies while I'd been covering a story last week in Madagascar, so in return I'd offered to watch the shop in the morning while she visited with an old friend. I was up on the rooftop enjoying the bookstore's garden, singing to myself and topping off the seed bin in the passenger pigeon coop, when I noticed a stranger in the midst of the usual birds. Attached to his leg by a red string was a tiny scroll of paper. I freed it and unrolled the message.

Confucius Say: May you lead an interesting life. On the back were some lucky numbers.

Huh. I pocketed the fortune and went about my day, though something niggled at the back of my mind and wouldn't let go. It wasn't until that evening when I realized what had bothered me about the incident: When I'd held the bird to remove the message, the usual thrumming heartbeat had been absent beneath my careful grasp. Could it be…? I raced back up to the shop--the Shepherdess had already locked up for the night, but there, fallen onto the ground, was the confirmation of my suspicions.

I picked up the bird from where it lay on its side, feet still scratching the air and head bobbing rhythmically. "Coo, Coo, Coo" it purred tinnily, and as I turned it over to examine it in the gaslight, I felt rather than heard a faint snick and a whirring. From within the bird spoke a monotone voice:

"Tomorrow. Mr. H__. Jake and Dorothy's. 4 O'Clock. Sharp. Tell no one. Come alone. Bring your notebook. Drop the pigeon."

Intrigued, I ignored the last of the bird's instructions and, after a moment's inspection, twisted off its plastic beak to reveal what was either an off switch or the self-destruct mechanism. Never being one to shillyshally with the what-ifs, I flicked it and flinched. I braced for the explosion, but the avian robot just gave one last dopplered-down coo as its glowing red eyes faded to black. I stashed it behind one of the flowerpots, then walked back home, thoughtful. I wouldn't sleep until hours later, but rather chewed on the day's unlikely turn of events. The Shepherdess was right; there was never a dull moment at the shop.

The next day, I fretted. My restless night had left me bleary and paranoid. I hoped to have the upper hand in my interview, so I came early and sat in a wall booth at Jake's to watch the incoming customers. I'd just drained my third cup of joe when, as I tilted the cup back, I saw I'd been joined at the booth by a figure holding a dinner menu in one hand and a glass bottle in the other.

"The instructions said 4, sharp. You're 20 minutes early. And you should go easy on that coffee, Miss Jay. It's your fourth cup."

"Third, actually," I corrected, then quickly did the math and realized he was right. I cleared my throat. My hopes for the upper hand were diminishing.

"Mr. H__, I presume?"

He didn't reply, but rather continued as if I'd not spoken.

"In 1891, something appeared in the sky over Dublin, Texas: something from another world, something which may have changed the town forever."

I listened expectantly as The Mysterious Mr. H__ took a long sip from his soda. He was a tall drink of water, or what I could see of him. The menu effectively blocked all but his hat from my view. I thought my clever camera tricks would catch his mug in at least one of my photos, but all my surreptitious pictures strangely came out blurred or blank, save this one:

So I waited. Patience, you see, is a journalist's greatest asset, save for her plucky personality and shorthand skills. Mr. H__ was quiet for a moment longer, perhaps reading the menu, perhaps reading me. His silence was as inscrutable as the Sphinx, but he blinked first (At least, I assume he did.). He cleared his throat and began again.

"That account, that sighting--most folks think that news story was the end. They don't know. They never do."

When nothing followed that enigmatic statement, I decided to cut to the chase, get to the grist.
"Gleepers, Mr. H__, I'm not sure I follow. I've covered some pretty fantastic stories in my time, but this one takes the cake! Surely having a levitating cotton bale explode into a rain of metal and manuscript is enough! Really, Sir; what more could there be?"

His gloved hand gripped the menu tighter until the laminate took on a wavy pattern in the glow of the overhead lights, sort of a film moire which reminded me that I knew nothing about this gentleman, where he came from, who he was, and I'd not left note of my agenda with anyone save a hurried note scribbled on the icebox.

I'd struck a nerve with him; that was obvious, but even so, I felt that I was not in danger, but rather on the brink of an amazing revelation. I took a bracing sip of my coffee, then met his stare (or what I extrapolated to be his stare.).

"Miss Jay, have you ever felt the weight of truth? The lonely chill from glimpsing what lies beneath our day-to-day placations and hypnoses? I have. I carried the burden for years, shivered in its growing rime, been its guardian and its prisoner, and now the time has come for us both to be free. I hold the key, Miss Jay. I need only your pen to turn it."

He lifted his soda again. I nodded my thanks to the waitress as she gave me a warm up, and as soon as she left, he spoke again.

"The manuscript. Didn't you ever wonder what became of the fragments?"

"I just always assumed they rotted away. Now the metal--"

"Forget the metal!!!" His vehemence startled me.

"Don't you see? The metal was just a red herring planted to throw folks off the trail of the real prize."

At this my skepticism (yet another quality of any journalist worth her weight in graphite) kicked in.

"With all due respect, Mr. H__, who on earth would do such a thing?"

"Who…on Earth…indeed, Miss Jay."

It was at that moment I first felt the clammy fingers of truth graze my neck. I downed my coffee, turned up my trench coat collar, and leaned closer to the man behind the menu.
"Holy smokes," I quietly exclaimed.

"Holy smokes," he agreed. After a moment's pause, given I felt more for me than for his own collection, he continued.

"The writings were of strange hieroglyphs, unseen before by any of the townsmen. Undecipherable as they were, the fragments quickly disappeared, never to be viewed by the public again."

"All this has been public knowledge for the last century, Sir. What am I missing?"

"That same year, actually, that same month, Miss J., a secret formula began to appear throughout the area, an elixir so satisfying, so invigorating, that to this day folks will drive hundreds of miles just to pick up a few bottles."

"You don't mean…." I reached into my coat pocket and nervously fingered the tiny scroll from last night. "An interesting life," indeed. The numbers on the back--10...2...4--suddenly made sense.

The Mysterious Mr. H__ took a drink from his soda in confirmation.

"The one and the same. The formula for Dublin Dr Pepper has been known as the most closely guarded trade secret in the nation, perhaps…on…Earth. The recipe is locked away within a vault guarded round the clock by armed guards and known by only 2 people at any given time. In that vault? A single fragment of a manuscript. The sighting? June, 1891. The soda? June, 1891. The crash sight? Just across the street from the bottling plant."

At this point even your intrepid journalist's unshakable cool was broken. Here before me was overwhelming evidence that Dublin Dr Pepper was no mere beverage but actually the result of superior alien technology! They always claimed it was the pure cane sugar that gave it such zing, but perhaps that was just the beginning.

And what, exactly was Dublin Dr Pepper? To we earthlings, perhaps, it was merely a refreshing and tasty beverage, but who knows what effects it might have on extraterrestrial metabolisms? A Miraculous Medicine? An Alien Aphrodisiac? A Fountain of Youth for Greys? And who was I to presume that they actually drank the stuff, anyway? Perhaps it fueled their warp engines, or was the syrup a coating necessary for their bodies to safely withstand the rigors of interdimensional travel? No wonder they'd returned to Erath county! Who knew what type of calamities were occurring on their home planet as their remaining stockpiles of the elixir diminished while the sole copy of the recipe now rested in Terran hands!

"Mister, you have me convinced. Does this mean we should prepare for invasion?"

The corner of his mouth twitched (or I assume it did), the first display of amusement he'd shown since beginning the interview. Mr. H__ made a slight motion with his now-empty soda bottle, and the waitress returned.

"One of these for the lady, please. She's been drinking too much coffee, it seems."

The waitress returned with my drink. I took it, hands trembling.

"Here ya go, Honey," she said, then pulled a wry face when she saw how reverently I regarded the bottle.

"Enjoy. It's out of this world."

I took a tentative sip, and as calm returned me to my journalistic senses, spoke again.

"So what does this mean for humanity?"

"My research indicates they are a peaceful lot, these beings. If they want it back, they're here for the formula and nothing more. And perhaps they are merely watching us appreciate their gift. Heaven knows our primitive society could use a boost. We weren't ready to be taught how to build a hyper-drive, but maybe we managed to qualify for a soda pop light years ahead of all the others."

I jotted down some final notes, then flipped the pad shut and leaned over the table.

"Off the record, Mr. H__, but--how do you know these things?"

…And that, folks, is all I can write of what followed. A journalist's reputation for discretion must never be compromised. Sara Jay, reporting live from the Lion.

Text Copyright 2008 by The Literary Lion, using with permission the intellectual property copyrighted 2008 of Dr. Pepper/ 1891 crash site connection by J. Huse, all rights reserved. The Dr Pepper name is a trademark of the Dr Pepper company.

1891 Incident, Part Two: Late Breaking News!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 01:50:00 +0000

!!!Is The Mystery Solved at Last???

!!!Has The Literary Lion Scooped the Story of The Century???

!!!Will This Be the End of Civilization As We Know It???

Stay tuned, stay alert, and stay together in a single line, folks--all shall soon be revealed in the Lion's next blog. Your spunky reporter (and renowned historian) Sara Jay, has heard an amazing story--a story so strange, so weird, so deliciously out-there, that she has had no choice but to stop the press, stop the traffic, and stop the insanity just so she might arrange a clandestine interview with the Mysterious Mr. H__, a man who holds the key to a tale too weird to be anything but fiction...or is it too strange to be anything but the truth...?

UFO Archive and the 1891 Incident, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 20:11:00 +0000

Howdy again from the land of literature, longhorns, and little green men. I’ve been cruising under the blogosphere radar for the last month because--among my froggering thousands upon thousands of paperbacks across the street into our sister shop, opening up said second store, and re-arranging the original one--I've been swamped!

Since the airing of last week’s UFO Hunters on the History Channel, several folks have been asking in general about our UFO archive at the Lion and the 1891 incident, specifically (and if you missed it, it looks like they'll be airing the "Invasion: Stephenville" episode again on Sunday, April 13th 11:00 PM, Monday, April 14th at 03:00 AM, and Saturday, April 19th at 03:00 PM, EST). Here’s some back story on both:

In 7th grade, my creative writing teacher here in Stephenville gave us an historical fiction assignment. To help us pick a topic for our stories, we were to pour over old news snippets collected in calendars created by a local history buff (so Dan, if you’re reading--this is all your fault!). Ever the nerd, I of course was elated when I found the following:

June 12th/13th, 1891: Several Dublin citizens reported seeing and hearing what
appeared to be a brilliantly glowing bale of cotton suspended 300 feet in the
air, near Wasson & Miller’s gin last night. The thing exploded like a “bomb
shell,” burning local vegetation and leaving “peculiar stones and pieces of
metal, all of a leaden color” as well as “fragments of manuscript” in a language
that “no one has yet been found who has ever seen before…” (from the Dublin
Progress)

Wowsers! Much to Teacher's chagrin, her attempts to extract from me a story not including bug-eyed monsters (or unicorns, or both) failed. Though I've successfully blocked most of those memories from my mind, I have the sneaking suspicion that my treatment of the peaceful pioneers of Erath County involved their getting invaded by time-travelling Romulans, or somesuch. Sigh...to be a young geeky pariah of public school society. If you just shuddered in empathy in your own recollections of having been a nerd awash in a sea of coolness, raise your hand thusly:

Aw. I knew you could!

Okay, space cadets--let’s time warp now back to the past present (Tense? I, too; I, too.). After the January hubbub here in Stephenville, I spoke with an old grade school buddy who, as old grade school buddies are wont to do, cheerfully dredged up that awkward period of my life and that infamous assignment. “Guess Erath’s had a long history of UFOs, huh,” was her tossed-off comment which planted the seed of what is now our Erath County UFO archive.

Bob Dunn, who is graciously allowing us to host his Lone Star Library Texana collection upstairs, had just that week brought in some new Erath county memorabilia and history books. I spent the next several hours pouring through the collection until I found the copies of the same calendars we used for inspiration all those years ago.

In addition to the aforementioned entry were other accounts, mostly seemingly of meteors, but a couple somewhat less explainable. This was the inspiration for the archive. I then sent out an open invitation to residents to add their personal accounts. That invite, by the way, is still open, folks, so keep those reports coming.

I've had folks ask what angle I'm taking on this. I'd like to say right now that I love science, love science fiction, and have a healthy sense of wonder along with a healthy bit of skepticism. I am merely gathering these records, not drawing conclusions. I am treating this project as something which might someday be of use to folks researching a variety of aspects of both our county history and UFO phenomena. And, in my book, a UFO is just that--an Unidentified Flying Object. So don't be shy--while I'm certainly having a blast with the project, I will not be testing you for high levels of midichlorians should you add your story to the collection...yet.

The archive is just in its infancy. It's merely a hobby of mine right now, but I hope in time it will be of some historical use. I'm also accepting donations of old news clippings, visual or audio related to the sightings, media and societal responses to the recent flap, advertisements related to the January sightings, and personal accounts not only of sightings but also of the emotional or otherwise impact the hubbub has had on residents.

...and that 1891 news clipping? I've long lost both the story and research from all those years ago, but here's a copy of one of the original articles on the incident recently sent to me from the Dublin Public Library (a wonderful library, I might add, but that's for another blog):

But wait--there's more!!! Stay tuned folks...I've just gotten a telegram from the Lion's own cub reporter, Sara Jay, requesting I stop the press, for she's just scooped what may be the Stephenville Story of the Century! More to come...

Nanu, Nanu,
Shepherdess

Opening Date for The Literary Lion, Too

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 22:44:00 +0000

Okay--here's the latest scoop:

We will be opening The Literary Lion, Too on March 22nd. I'm still fiddling with scheduling, so the hours are subject to change in the future, but for now it looks like the shop will be open at least from 3-6, Monday through Friday, and 10-2 on Saturday. I'm sure the open hours will increase as time goes on, but until my clones grow up, the tulpa gets over her rebellious streak, and I fix the short in the android (darn that discount aluminum wiring), this is as good as it gets.

Additionally, we will have an outdoor 50 cent book sale every Saturday morning from 8am-10am, weather permitting.

A quick reminder: the original shop will still carry our collectible books and non-fiction, 10-6, Monday through Saturday; we are simply moving all of our discount hardbacks and paperbacks into the new location.

Yea...books!

-Sarah

Bookstore News

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 00:33:00 +0000

After a decade of wonderful service, Diana’s Book Trader has closed its doors.

Diana was always friendly and gracious to other local bookstores, especially to the Literary Lion. She is a nice lady and a book lover, and that‘s always a great combination. Book addict that I am, I was a customer of hers as well as a colleague. I am sad that she is no longer in the book trade, but wish her many blessings for her future.

The closing of Diana’s Book Trader left an availablity of space just across from our primary shop.

This couldn't have had more synchronous timing. Ever since the Lion started hosting the Lone Star Library (book collector Bob Dunn's stellar Texana collection...check it out here) upstairs in what was formerly its paperbacks section, I've been scratching my head, wondering, "What am I going to do with all these books?" Who knew the answer would turn out to be, "Open a second shop!"?

The Literary Lion is open for business, same as always, but all of its half-price paperbacks and discount hardbacks will soon be for sale at the second location: “The Literary Lion, Too.”

I hope to have the new store open in early March. As soon as I have a concrete date set or any further details, I will post them on this blog.

Yea...books!

A Disturbing Event at the Lion

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 18:14:00 +0000

"Inasmuch as the mind creates the world of appearances, it can create any particular object desired. The process consists of giving palpable being to a particular object desired…to a visualization, in very much the same manner as an architect gives concrete expression in three dimensions to his abstract concepts after first having given them expression in the two-dimensions of his blue-print. “
- W. Y. Evans-Wentz

"The Tibetan doubtobs are considered to be experts in the art of creating tulpas, imaginary forms which are a sort of robot they control as they wish, but which, sometimes, manage to acquire some kind of autonomous personality…”
- Alexandra David-Neel and Lama Yongden, The Secret Oral Teachings in Tibetan Buddhist Sects

“Tulpas can get uppity.”
-William S. Burroughs

It all started with a piece of poorly written bassoon music. Some maniac had seen fit to give his bassoon section several low As in the composition I was then playing in our high school band. Bassoons, as you know, play only down to B-flat, leaving a half-step chasm between musical reality and delusion.

“Skip it,” said the director.

“Never give up!” said I, the freshman of last chair distinction. After school I went on the internet in hopes of finding a technique for the cursed note. Surely some bassoonist with more training than I had such forbidden knowledge.

Ten minutes of seeking brought me to a page of unusual fingerings. Triumph! Low A’s, low A-flats, amazingly high notes--all these were suddenly within my sight if not yet within my ability. Most incredible of all were the multiphonic fingerings--positions which would enable one to play two, three, or even four notes simultaneously on a single instrument. Impossible? No, but certainly something I’d never imagined. The how-to was not enough; I wanted to know the how-come.

I spent the next two hours delving deeper and deeper into that wonderful time sponge we call the World Wide Web. I finally found the physics of multiphonics explained in an scientific journal’s article--not on bassooning, but in a study on certain oddities in Tibetan culture. It seemed the Tibetans had a practice of multiphonic chanting, the science of which was explained in phrases dry enough to take the interest out of the subject to all but the most intrepid (or masochistic) reader.

I was that reader. Tibet! The land of yaks, monks, and mountains--now also the source of arcane bassoon knowledge. Er…not exactly, but at any rate, I was hooked. I read anything I could on the culture; even after the dreaded A’s were gamely honked out (Take that, tuba section!), I kept up my research.

Tibet is full of intrigue. In addition to many-voiced monks and yak butter tea (a mystery in and of itself), Tibet is also home of the Tulpa, the what-you-do-when-there’s-no-cable-tv favorite pasttime of the Himalayas. These figments of the mind are rumored to have the capability of becoming real, not only to their creators, but to third parties, caught as glimpses from the corner of the eye and evinced by disappearing lumps of sticky rice set out for them in bowls.

Well. Fun with your new thoughtform might be a pastime just peachy for llamas, but I always figured that with my luck, any tulpa I created would quickly overpower my feeble mind, take on a life of its own, and make things 10 times more difficult than they already were. One unguarded moment, and POOF!--there she’d be, sacked out on my sofa surrounded by empty Funion bags and dog-earred books. My books, I might add--my complete collection of Star Trek (original series) novels, once pristine, now ruined by chocolate and chip-greased thumbprint smears, their pages creased and covers hopelessly curled. My books. My couch. My Funion money. Enough.

I’d politely offer her a bookmark and some Purell, and in a roundabout way suggest that she start sharing dish duty, perhaps even peruse the paper for some part time work, to which she’d slit her eyes and say, “You. Owe. Me,” sending me scurrying back into the kitchen to add a warm up to her tea as I pondered the implication of such words.

Eventually, things between us would deteriorate even further, and I’d finally turn to my family for advice. The cruelest cut!!! For unbeknownst to me, my tulpa would have carefully been seeding my closest ties with doubts and subtle slights against my honor, all the while giving the cousins nifty presents ordered from the numerous catalogues coming to my address in her name. My mother--my own mother!--would choose her side of the story over mine, and there I’d be--alone and unemployed in Greenland, as t’were.

And so, I’d surrender to my fate by taking on a second job to help pay for all the mail-ordered stuff and credit card bills, for though the catalogues would bear her name, she‘d have taken the cards out in mine, as it is a little known fact that even the strongest tulpa cannot withstand a credit check.

…Right. Some girls drew hearts around their boyfriend’s name for daydreaming. I broke out into cold sweats worried about delusions brought on by studying Tibetan culture. Whatever you do, don’t think about purple hippopotami…

Flash forward with me now from those awkward teenage years to 2008:

Last week I walked into the Lion, picked up the mail, and noticed a package, containing, I assumed, a book I’d special ordered for the shop. Odd, though…it felt as though there was more than one book in the shipping envelope…huh.

I look at the return addy: Random House Publishing. Curiouser and curiouser. I’d not ordered anything from them.

I opened the package and found inside two review copies of soon-to-be released books. Nifty! I felt beloved and bookish…until I looked at the enclosed letter. It was a chatty note regarding this very blog. It spoke kindly of the Shepherdess’ blog and her love of books, suggesting that she might enjoy the enclosed novels.

!!!

I looked at the mailing address, and sure enough--the package was addressed not to me, but to my imaginary blogger.

The Shepherdess??? My online avatar??? My creation made up only of random electrons and careless words??? Imagine, Gentle Reader, my shuddering horror at the realization that the Shepherdess was no longer merely a convenient foil and figment of creativity, brought out as it pleased me and tucked safely away at all other times. No--the Shepherdess, that crafty Tibetan, was quietly creeping out into other’s consciousnesses while my attention was directed elsewhere.

I felt a chill as I regarded the day’s mail with this realization. A chill…and peevishness. It had started: My tulpa was getting cool books and fan mail. All I got that day was the electric bill.

…

Today I noticed some of the Star Trek novels have gone missing from my shelf. Ingrate--the least she could do is read those review copies first. They’ve not been touched. Out of spite I plan on perusing them this weekend. I’ll blog my thoughts--MY thoughts, thank you--on the books when I finish them. Perhaps it will help someday get me a second job as a reviewer--it’s either that or a second mortgage, for I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until the Shepherdess starts demanding she be kept in the position to which she is wishing to become accustomed.

…On reflection, perhaps I should have followed my band director’s advice.

-S.J. Cannady

For Lovers of Lovers of Books

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 17:05:00 +0000

This February, join us at the Lion for a celebration of romance. We are featuring William Goldman's The Princess Bride--simply one of the best books of all time--as well as our collections of fairy tales and love poetry. Propose to your sweetheart in our history room, and we'll send you a wedding present. Come share your own stories of "happily ever after" with us over a cup of rose petal tea and a homemade key-lime sugar cookie.

For Valentine's Day, treat yourself or that special bluestocking in your life to a gift that won't go straight to the hips, wilt in a week, require reservations and a babysitter, or need a plumber to extract from the pea trap when it falls into the sink as you're washing dishes (says the voice of experience). Whether you choose a gift certificate or would like us to help you pick the perfect title for your sweetheart, we invite you to our store to indulge in a little biliophilia.

...and receive a 20% discount if you can find the Shepherdess a decent date for Valentine's Day. Bah.

Tom P's Fiddle: A Review

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 06:51:00 +0000

"Dusk deepened to raspberry darkness on the Texas landscape as Tom P headed west from his sister's homestead...."
-from Tom P's Fiddle, by Sherri Knight

Tom P’s Fiddle, Texas native Sherri Knight’s first book, is a narrative non-fiction primarily about the events surrounding the Varnell/Land murder trial of the late 1800s. More than that, though, Knight effortlessly pulls readers into a world of determined ladies and gentlemen rogues, honorable standoffs and hidden ambushes, wide open ranges and claustrophobic prison cells, and shows us that, while laws and landscapes might change, people and their tendancies stay the same.

Knight’s writing style is punchy and well-paced from the first sentence all the way to the work’s haunting final page. Within the first paragraph she not only sets the scene but manages to immediately convey to the reader the scope of time and depth Tom P’s troubles encompass with the following: “A drooping mustache neatly outlined his mouth, hiding the slight downward turn that appeared when he was contemplative, the residue of the hard years he had spent in prison.” While his prison time won’t come until several chapters later (much of the book is told as a reflection on times prior to the story‘s exposition), she effectively introduces her protagonist and his situation without a strenuous ploughing through dreary mounds of character study.

The story unfolds with a plot based on the numerous newspaper articles, court documents, and other extensive sources related to the incident. These are blended by Knight’s skill as a storyteller into an interesting account that is never pendantic, that--to this cowgirl--instead reads like one is hearing the morning news swapped over coffee at the local feed store. At no time in the telling does her respect for the facts appear compromised by this approach; readers and researchers alike will appreciate this book.

The portrayal of Tom P is one which might at first be difficult to readers familiar with the story to embrace. A lady’s man wanted for murder and on the run--that is the verdict placed on Knight’s main character by common view, and not without reason. Although Knight is faithful to the historical facts, her sympathies toward Tom P readily come through. This initially may make for a more cynical read by some, but as the story develops those readers may be surprised to find their condemnation of Tom P tempered--not by Knight’s presentation, but by the facts therin.

Ultimately, the Varnell/Land tragedy is just that for all concerned parties, and Knight’s book fully brings that home. The tone is never maudlin, though, and instead fully pays homage to the spirit of the day. It lopes through the early life of a young Texas man, sips Arbuckle’s coffee at a timeless kitchen table, and gallops through arrests, jailbreaks, gunfights, and reckonings, all to the sound of a skillfully played fiddle. At times, toe-tapping, plaintive at others, Knight’s composition is always on-key and highly worthy of a listen.

-S. J. Cannady
(This book will be available for purchase April 5, 2008. Stop by the Literary Lion to reserve your copy now.)

NaNoo, NaNoo!

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 01:10:00 +0000

Wow! What a busy month we've had here at the Lion. If anyone is wondering why I have giant blue circles under my puffy eyes...No; I didn't walk into the door again, thank you--I've just been running on an average of 2 hours of sleep per night for the last few weeks. Here are a few photos from last week's shennanigans at the bookshop.

I'll update this post with further pics as they are sent to me, but for now, enjoy:

We had some great discussions about the recent UFO sightings. Good company, good conversation, great chips and hot sauce (Thank you, Santa Fe County Taco Company!).

We are still accepting first-hand accounts of mysterious local phenoma for our Erath county section of the Lone Star Library; whether it happened last night or 50 years ago, please add your experience to the archives.

Author Forrest Jackson visited our bookstore. We still have for sale here a couple signed copies of his books, Cosmic Suicide: The Tragedy and Transcendence of Heaven's Gate, and Three Myths of Gods, Devils and Beasts. Thank you, Forrest!

This fellow was delighted because he was able to find copies of Where the Red Fern Grows and Lysistrata for under a dollar each here at the Lion. I believe his exact response to the find was, "oOOOOOOoooo!"

An alien culture pow-wow, here:

And, last but not least, my very favorite prop, ever, for inciting spontaneous recitations of Hamlet:

That's all, folks! Keep the photos coming!

Coming Soon...Photos from the Lion

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 21:54:00 +0000

Greetings, Gentle Readers!

So much wonderful Lion news to share, so little time. I will try to get pictures from last week up on the blog here tonight, so hang onto your tinfoil hats!

-S.

100 Years of Stephenville Sightings

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 00:27:00 +0000

Explore the History of Stephenville's Sightings

Have you seen something that defies explanation, or are you just curious about others' accounts? Skeptics and believers alike, come be a part of history in the making as we discuss the beginnings of UFO sightings in Erath County--some dating back over 100 years! Additionally, we will be archiving your eye-witness accounts in our county history section at the Lone Star Library Texana Collection of the Literary Lion.

*display of Mysterious Phenomena Timeline for Erath County
*Special Guest Forrest Jackson, co-author of books on a variety of mysterious phenomena
*Whether you saw it yesterday or 50 years ago, log your story for future generations in our Erath County history section.

Thursday, Jan 24th, 7pm
The Literary Lion at 160 E. Washington in Stephenville
This event is free and refreshments will be served.

Please RSVP at either 968-6611 or via a blog comment. Thank you.

They're Heee-ere Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 17:22:00 +0000

Yet another "Lion in News Unrelated to Bookselling" spot, this one from the Dallas Morning News video blog:

http://neighborsgo.com/video/521

The picture hanging on the wall behind me in the blurb is original artwork done by the superlative folks at Ethan Allen Studios. More about them, later.

Chess

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 18:18:00 +0000

Since impromptu chess games are common at the Lion, I thought this article might interest some of you:

Chess Master Bobby Fischer Dies

Like him or hate him, he did know a thing or two about the game.

They're Hee-eere!

noreply@blogger.com (Shepherdess) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 06:04:00 +0000

Okay. The Lion appeared in the news again...this time in articles that take the cake for "Most Unrelated to Bookselling."

UFO Sightings in Stephenville, Texas, Keep the City and Nation Abuzz San Angelo LIVE! - San Angelo,TX,USAAt the Literary Lion, an antiquarian bookstore in this small city 70 miles southwest of Fort Worth, patrons are scouring sci-fi titles more and clamoring ...

and another:

Someone Saw Something (from the neighborsgo blog of the Dallas News)

So yeah...we're having a little something here next Thursday. More tomorrow on the details, but suffice it to say, it'll be absolutely Phenomenal.... :)