We’re all fine here.

My home is only about 10 miles from the epicenter in Chino Hills, and while I wasn’t there myself (my workplace is another 20 miles away), my kids, husband, and grandmother got shook pretty good. Things were broken (candle holders, knickknacks, a bottle of Port) , but no people were hurt. All is well.

While I was briefly worried for my families well-being, once I knew they were okay, I am not ashamed to admit that I was not home, having to clean up the mess!

I lied.

A few days ago, I claimed that the experience of reading a really bad book had demolished my ability to read any novel-length fiction for nigh on a month.

But that’s not true. Sometime over the weekend, I recalled that I actually did read a book immediately after finishing the bad one — my boss had lent me a copy of Stephanie Meyer’s teenage vampire love-story, Twilight, and I figured I ought to get it read so I could return it.

That I completely forgot that I read it is not a commentary on the book itself, I think, but rather is a statement of how fried my brain was after finishing the other book.

Twilight is actually not too bad, for what it is. I’m not particularly enamored of vampire stories or straight romance-for-romance’s-sake novels, but Meyer is a compelling tale-teller who whips you through 500 pages of teenage angst at a good clip. Her characters are sharply drawn and appealing — I totally get all the swooning over the male lead I’ve read about online the past couple years — and her prose is solid. I think it could have been a little shorter, myself; too much courting goes on (it’s a romance, after all) and for the first three-quarters of the book the tension is all about, “oh noes! i’m in love with a vampire!” But the action picks up at the end, so that you feel like something actually happened in the story aside from a lot of talking about what a bad idea this whole relationship is.

In short there are a lot worse things one could spend their summer days reading.

Believe me, I know.

It’s been a while since I’ve shown off any of my work from my day job here. The third issue of Life Images is available this month, and it’s another gorgeous book filled with amazing photography and (most gratifying to myself) really exceptional journaling. Have I used enough superlatives yet? I can’t help myself, I really love the magazine that much.

As I see it, it’s the journaling that really makes this magazine a keeper. We’re surrounded by beautiful photography everywhere, but there’s nothing that puts together words and images quite like Life Images does. Heartfelt, endearing, poetic … true. There’s just something very true about all these pictures and the words that accompany them. Encouraging our contributors to find words that were just as powerful as the photos they submitted was very important to me in this issue, and I think I succeeded.

“…that night my son didn’t say a word when he found me. He didn’t even question me about why I was crying. Instead, he sat there on the floor beside me and put his arm around me…” (Angelina Dominguez)

“…One day he collected he petals of a red flower, a pitcher of milk, and a needle. He went deep into the forest on the night of the first full moon. He pricked his finger, allowing a single drop of blood to fall…” (Diane Keys)

“…It is moonlight leaking on soft skin, a worship song rising within, waterfalls and road trips on mountaintops. The way the breath gets knocked out of you seconds before a symphony plays and the climax of every instrument tin unison…” (Kara Troglin)

“…I discovered that exactly the same door had mesmerized my grandmother some 50 years ago. When I found, embedded in her collection, a beautiful image of the very same door, I examined the photo and compared it to my own. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I considered how eerie it was that we chose to focus our cameras on the same subject, so many years apart…” (Kathleen Russ)

“…That day in July … it was so hard to hear the news that my mom’s cancer has come back for the second time…” (Bretney Endy)

That last quote comes from a particularly powerful series in this issue, submitted by a group of high school students who used photography and journaling to confront their own inner demons and fears. I have read every word in this magazine a dozen times, and some of the pieces in this group still make me cry, they’re that moving.

Here’s a little peek at some of what’s inside:

If you like what you see, I encourage you to visit your local Borders and/or Barnes & Noble to buy a copy. Help ensure I have a job this time next year! (We’re all friends and family here — I can say that sort of thing.)

Thank you to Chris, Annie, Gabrielle and Melissa for playing along with my “Name That Guy” contest. I was very entertained by your creativity, and there are certainly some interesting story ideas there. I may revisit them at some point.

My choice was made a lot easier by one thing. Well, two things, the second being that Chris was just plain ol’ wrong about That Guy being him. Chris is a much better looking guy. (I’d prove it with a photo, but I don’t seem to have any but this picture of a picture online anywhere.)

The first thing that made it easy for me was that Melissa and Gabrielle each created a very interesting character … but neither of them actually gave him a name! Since that was actually the point of the contest, I am forced to eliminate them from the competition. No hard feelings, I hope? Rules, after all, are rules.

So (by default, and I’m glad of that because it means I didn’t actually have to choose), Annie is the winner of the Name That Guy contest! Here is Annie’s entry:

This is Hoben and he’s one of the Creators in the land of Ephily. The Creators are a select few artists who sit in a room and sketch pictures of new creatures and when the sketches are finished off with a dusting of magic sand over the ink, the creature then comes to life somewhere in the land. What makes Hoben a good creator is that not only does he have a mind for subtle detail, but he also understands balance and incorporates that into what he creates.

Hoben is a good fit, I think, and I love the idea of people sketching their world into existence. I wonder if I could get a hold of some of that magic sand and sprinkle it over my picture of Ben Barnes … no, Stace, no. Don’t go there.

Annie, let me know if you want the bookwish or a picture. Actually, I owe you several pictures, since you suggested three of the subjects I took on in the past month. Let me know which (if any) you’d like to have.

Thanks, everyone, for playing along!

I don’t know why I did it to myself.

It must have been the word “free” — I seem psychologically unable to resist it, especially when it’s coupled with the work “books.” Say it with me, if you will:

Doesn’t it make you all tingly inside?

Still, I should have known better. Last spring, the buzz about a particular book by a particular author piqued my interest, and I paid out hard cash to try it out only to end up extremely disappointed. I really had no intention of seeking out the remaining volumes in the trilogy, right up until the publisher offered a set of all three to anyone willing to write a review of them (especially the last book, which was just released).

Something in my brain short-circuited at the thought of getting free books, especially a free ARC (advance review copy). So what if they were books I didn’t want to read? They were FREE! And I’d have the opportunity to read the last one before anyone else!

Of course, having the books in my possession meant that I was obligated to actually read them, and then write about them. And I did. Read them, that is. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds, because as disappointing as the first book in the trilogy was, the second and third books managed to magnify my opinion to one of true, teeth-gnashing disgust.

I don’t want to go into the many things wrong with these books. Well, I do want to (strictly for educational purposes, you understand) but I made a decision a while ago that I wasn’t going to trash anyone’s books here, because I know that what goes around comes around, and I haven’t written much myself (yet) that would stand up to heavy critical appraisal. In the back of my head, I have this idea that I could end up sitting next to one of these authors at a con someday, and I don’t want our conversation to start with something like, “Say, aren’t you the one who wrote that totally scathing review of my book on your blog…?” So that’s why I haven’t mentioned the book or author by name.

Also, it would be a very long post. Very.

Apparently, reading bad books gave have a long-term effect on your brain. I swear, I haven’t been able to pick up another novel for the better part of a month, now, ever since finishing the book in question. It’s like I sprained something in there, and I’m afraid if I stretch it too soon I’ll damage myself beyond all recovery. Not even the likes of Ursula LeGuin, John Crowley and China Mieville (all waiting in my to-be-read pile) can lure me into their pages. I’ve had to make do with nibbling at a few of short stories and non-fiction and episodes of Get Smart while my Narrative Appreciation lobe recuperates.

That I’m actually writing about the experience is a good sign. I must be in recovery, if I can talk about it.