Three Things About Korea Guidebooks Won't Tell You

To be fair, I haven't read enough guidebooks to definitively state that these facts aren't mentioned. They are certainly things I never heard before I arrived.

The Food Is Fresh

During my first week in Korea, I ordered a strange-looking, spiral cut potato-on-a-stick thing from a small shop. It was relatively early in the day, and there was only one girl at the counter. Being the sensitive former-service-worker that I am, I felt quite guilty when she pulled the potato thing out of the freezer and put it in the deep fryer. "Wow," I told Linus when I emerged from the store, "I felt pretty bad. She didn't have any ready yet and had to make one right there for me on the spot!"

Actually, that wasn't the case. What I figured out eventually is that every food in Korea is made on the spot. Gimbap, fried things, bibimbap, barbecue, pork, it doesn't matter -- it is cooked right there, right then, especially for you. In fact, frequently they just bring you the food and have YOU cook it at the table (this is part of the magic of sangyepsal, galmeggisol, and all the other amazing Korean meat dishes). The sole exception to this rule is fried shops/street stalls. These do prepare food in advance and stack it up so you can see what is on offer. Still, even there they will usually dunk your order back in the deep fryer for a minute before handing it over to you. That way, it is nice and hot. Mmmm, fresh grease! However...

The Snacks All Taste Like Styrofoam

In Korea, nobody has to tell kids to share. They just do--especially when it comes to food. No kid brings any kind of snack to class and expects to have it all to himself! And quite often, the teacher is included in this largess. So I have had all kinds of Korean goodies popped into my mouth by tiny fingers*, and I can tell you now that, if you haven't tried these, you aren't missing out on anything. Nope, not a thing. In fact, you can make a pretty reasonable approximation of a bagged Korean snack just by sprinkling a little salt on some packing material. Not. Delicious.

Which is strange, because...

Koreans Do American Food Better Than Americans

Some day, a Korean couple is going to wander into an American country fair, and have this conversation:

"Honey, I went to go look at the food stalls, and everything is just...wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, they have corn dogs here, but they only batter and fry them once!"
"What? Not twice?"
"No! They are just sad, skinny little things."
"Do they at least cover the outside with crushed potato chips or cornflakes?"
"Not a potato chip in sight! And I saw some kids over there with chicken and soda. Their little hands were full! Haven't these people heard of Col-Pop?"
"You're right, this is just pathetic. Look at all that pizza. Not a single potato on any of them! Everyone knows that pizza and french fries belong together."

And then this Korean couple will go into business selling fair food, and within five years they will have revamped the whole industry, and we will all be eating Col-Pop and bulgogi hot dogs and chicken livers on sticks because holy shit those things are so delicious. The End.

*Don't overthink that sentence, okay?

Reading Red and Black

From my first manuscript, All the Gods' Children. The two main characters, Elizabeth Proctor and Tanqueray Collins, have black and red hair. So...

Black

     It should not have been possible, given the night she’d had, for terror swell queasily in her stomach again – but it was. Tanqueray swallowed before asking, “Was it you, then?" Her voice was high and thin.

     "What?" 

     "Did you kill all those people?” 

     “Which people?” inquired the man, looking at her sideways. 

     “The cultists.” 

     “I did that.” 

     Though her whole body trembled at the memory of that slaughter, Tanqueray raised her pointed chin. “You killed my friend,” she said accusingly. “Well, not friend exactly. But a nice boy who was helpin’ us out.”

     “Did I?” asked the man. 

     “You did.” 

     “Then I will repay your loss.” He held out his hand. “A friend for a friend.”

     Tanqueray hugged the rabbit closer, which wiggled in protest. “Like hell I’m--” 

     The rabbit bit her on her already cat-clawed forearms, and with a yelp
Tanqueray loosened her grip. That fast, the stranger’s rough hands snatched the kicking, wide-eyed rabbit away. Turning swiftly, he trotted up the road.

     “Hey, what are you...give her back!” shouted Tanqueray. Scrambling out of the car, she saw him already some little distance away, at the top of the hill. He’d pinned the rabbit to the ground with one hand and was pulling something out of his pack with the other.

     Tanqueray saw the gleam of the axe’s blade as he raised it over the rabbit’s head.

     “No! Stop!” she shrieked. Her hands sparked and snapped with blue lights, but he was too far away, and there were no helpful ghosts here.

     The axe came down. Tanqueray watched the little head roll down the road, spraying black as it went. Stupidly, she stopped to pick it up. The pink eyes looked blankly back at her. 

     The next blow came down upon the rabbit’s tail, separating the little bit of fluff cleanly from the round hindquarters. 

     “I’ll kill you!” screamed Tanqueray, as the man stood up from his bloody task. 

     “Calm yourself,” said the man. “Look.” He pointed at the tiny, still-quivering body. 

     From the bloody cavity of the neck, a slender white hand emerged. It became an arm, groping along the pavement. The head was next, black hair slicked over the face, mouth open and gasping. Tanqueray dropped the rabbit’s head and watched as, with grunts and groans, Elizabeth pulled herself fully out of the rabbit’s body. Climbing to her feet, she kicked what remained of the white corpse off her foot like a dirty sock, sending it flying into the trees.

Red

     "Sorry," said Tanqueray, a little dizzy from lack of oxygen. She tried to hand the bottle back, but Grettir wrapped his enormous hand around her own and wouldn't release her.

     "Come here," he said. His tone was low, but the words hit Tanqueray like a shock, far more powerful than her own blue sparks. Almost shaking, she slid off the hard plastic seat and let him tug her nearer. Not until she was standing in front of his chair did he release her, and then it was only to slide his hands into her armpits and lift her into his lap, settling her astride his legs. 

     Breathing shallowly, Tanqueray turned her head to the side, unable to look him in the face. Grettir's calloused palms slid slowly over her shoulders, toying with her neckline, and up the back of her neck, to touch her red hair.

     "Wait, wait," said Tanqueray breathily. She'd had her hands braced against his chest. Now she leaned back and reached up to unpin her braid. Her hair was tangled and it took her a long time, in her general state, to pull out the bobby pins--and even then, she tore out some hair.

     "Sorry," she said quickly, embarrassed.

     Grettir effectively silenced her by putting his hand under her chin and bending down to kiss her. It was a chaste kiss, close-lipped and soft, but it stilled her completely. Her hands dropped from her hair. One fell upon his neck, and she moved it slowly down its length, feeling his warm skin.

     Grettir broke the kiss. She rested her cheek against his bearded one and felt his hands deftly undoing her braid. Soon the waves fell around her shoulders, reaching down past her waist, and she felt him bury his hands in it. To her immense surprise he gave a trembling little sigh, almost more of a gasp. 

     It was then that Tanqueray finally understood that he actually desired her. She pressed her lips to his stubbly cheek, until he turned and caught her mouth with his own.

     They kissed again, this time not nearly so chastely.

Red and Black, the Musical

I haven't been able to keep up with everyone's posts as much as I would like. It's finals time here at Jeonju University, which means I'm up to my ears in unfinished grading. So I don't know if anyone else has posted this...but I couldn't resist. Isn't it the obvious theme song for this event? I've been humming it all week!

Red and Black Week!

Today is the first day of Red and Black Week, as sponsored by the ever-awesome Victorian Kitty from Sophistique Noir. View the icon!

I thought I'd start with a bang. Behold my favorite red-and-black photo of all time:

Taken by Marli, our local friendly photographer

My fiance's band was playing at a new cocktail bar, and I had to get fancy. This was the first time I'd ever attempted red eyeshadow. I was afraid that it would make my skin look too rosy (pink and healthy? Heaven forbid!). In the end, though, I was quite pleased with the effect.

As I've mentioned before, I like my outfits to convey a little story, or at least deliver a definite mood. When I saw myself in the mirror, what popped into my head was, "I look like a baby vampire on her first night out." I'm pretty sure nobody else got that impression, but I enjoyed it.

Does anybody else think of stories to go with their clothes?

The Wedding: Corset Edition

I'm getting married this summer, on a date which is approaching with alarming speed. This means I need to stop mooning over pretty things I want to buy and, you know, actually buy them. So after some credit card shenanigans (living in Korea is hard) I finally ordered my wedding corset:

This is the design that I ordered, though in a slightly different fabric. Lovely, isn't it? 

It's from Damsel in this Dress, a corset company that I highly recommend. I already own one of their waist-cinchers, and it's absolutely ideal: sturdy, beautifully made, and effective at making my waist look ridiculously teeny.

That is the secret plan, you see--by wearing a corset, I completely eliminate the created-by-the-Wedding-Industry "need" to diet! No deprivation for this bride-to-be. Since the thing is sleeveless I might swing the kettlebell a bit before the Big Day, but that's about it. No calorie-counting, no stress, no worrying whether the dress will fit just right. Tighten the corset a bit, loosen it a bit, whatever is required! 

Hooray for corsets!

On the Subject of Goths in Space

Linus and I have been watching Farscape recently. For those of you not familiar with the show, it feels like a poor man's Star Trek mixed with dashes of Firefly and set in the Labyrinth (not surprising, since it's a Jim Henson production). There are definitely pros and cons to the series, but there's one area in which Farscape absolutely reigns supreme: gothic space fashion.

First, there's the standard Peacekeeper uniform of black leather, red leather, and more leather.

Scorpius's coolant suit is especially fabulous. Black leather, shiny black alligator, and (though you can't see it) a protruding, molded spine in the back. If only there was a handbag version...



I don't know what he's holding, but I'm scared.



Scorpius would like you to shut up now.



Not now, woman! Scorpius has a headache.

Then there's these things that Jool wears. I'm not sure what I'd call them, but I want them.

Red velvet and low necklines can be VERY masculine. Just ask Ka D'Argo.



Give 'em a little chest, D'Argo.



But really, any show can pile on the corsets and leather. What clinches Farscape's gothic look is the hair.

This is Niem, Scorpius's assistant. Also known as "Peacekeeper Barbie."



And this is one of Scorpius's nurses. Hey, when you're a Peacekeeper commander, you're practically obligated to surround yourself with beautiful hench-wenches.



Finally, here's a picture of Scorpius and Sikozu grabbing each other's asses.



You're frellin' welcome.



On the Subject of Sharing Your Art, and Why It Sucks

Sometimes, friends who know that I write (which isn't all of them) ask to see my work. When they do this, they occasionally use a phrase like, "If you're comfortable," or "When you're ready."

This provokes two reactions in me. One is reeeaallly snotty: "Well, of course I'm comfortable sharing my stories with you, friend who has absolutely zero and zip to do with the publishing industry. I send queries on a daily basis to people whose job it is to tear into the tender belly of my novel with their enlarged meathooks of rejection. What do you think I am, a five-year old looking to hang her storybook on your fridge? Come on!"

The other reaction is a lot less bitchy and a lot more honest, and it's this: "Actually, I am terrified to show you my art. I fear you, and your offhand opinion, a lot more than the aforementioned meathooks."

I've thought long and hard about why I feel this way. I believe it's because I'm keenly aware of how people view unpublished authors.

Are you a published author? Swell! Have your books sold at least reasonably well? Even better! I'm delighted to shake your hand, ma'am.

Unpublished author? Face it--you might as well be writing an M-rated Farscape-Avengers crossover with Loki/Scorpius and Chianna/Black Widow pairings* for all the respect that you'll get.

External validation matters. It even influences the way we read. 

For example, I recently read The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. I adored it. The whole story had this strange beauty and warmth that made me feel in love with the world again. There are very few authors who can make me feel that way, and Mr. Gaiman is one of them.

But after I read the book, I performed a little thought experiment. What if I hadn't known this was by Neil Gaiman? What if this same book had been dog-eared manuscript handed to me by a friend?

In all honesty, my reaction would have been something like this *SPOILERS*: "All right, I think this book has a lot of potential. The boy in the graveyard is great and I love how you never outright tell the reader that Silas is a vampire. But there's a lot of things that need fixing. The whole Honor Guard concept is really vague, and the scenes where they're battling the Jacks are confusing. The Jacks themselves are kind of all over the place--I never get a sense of what they want or why they are the bad guys. And though the ghost dance scene is nice, I feel like it gets in the way of the story. If you remove that chapter it would improve the overall flow of the book, and you could insert more necessary background for the Honor Guard. And..." Blah blah blah.

Here's what happened. When I read the published, highly-acclaimed book by an author I've enjoyed in the past, I saw the magic more than the flaws. But when I imagined the book was a work-in-progress by a total unknown, I saw the flaws a lot more than the magic.

Note here that I am not saying that The Graveyard Book is a bad book, or that Neil Gaiman is a hack, or anything remotely like that. Not at all--I love Neil Gaiman to bits. (Not literal bits, of course. That would be some sort of strange death threat, not the adulation I intend.)

My point is not that published authors get away with murder (though some of them do). My point is that we--myself included--read more kindly when a story has already been externally validated. It's as if we need the approval of the publishing company to relax and enjoy all the good points of the work. When that approval is missing, many readers--myself included again--feel the urge to act as a gatekeeper. Instead of experiencing the story for itself, we're constantly trying to judge the story. Is this good enough? What would make it better? Is it really worthy of published?

Which is why--to get back to the main point--I'm scared of showing my writing to my friends. Sometimes I'm afraid of even talking about my writing to my friends. Sure, I'm immensely proud of the fact that I've written two books, something I wasn't sure I would ever accomplish in my whole life. But I know that until I've gotten published, nobody but me gives a rat's fuzzy ass.

You may have noticed that I'm writing about all this on a blog. Am I more comfortable discussing my work on the Internet than with my friends? Hell no! I am terrified even as I type this. The Internet is a bad place filled with unfriendly people and trolls lurking under forums. Problem is, it's also the place where my potential readers are. (Hellooooo? You out there? The geeky ones who devoured books as children and wished somebody would come and take you away to another world and still sort of half-way believe in magic and spaceships? You are my people! Come find me!) So yes, I'm taking an emotional risk, but the pay-off might be worth it.

God, I hope it's worth it. 

*If you are in fact writing this fanfic, no disrespect intended. Please send me a copy.