Although Apple claims most of their products are game changers, iBooks Author actually is. Not just as a free platform to create books for the iPad, but as an editing tool.

Despite my preference for curling up in a chair with a cup of coffee and a red pen, most of my editing work is done on-screen. This way, edits are not lost, pages aren’t eaten by the cat, and it’s easy for me to share my work when it’s done. Lately, though, I’ve been making most of my notes by importing work into iBooks Author, then exporting or previewing the file in iBooks on the iPad.

Wait, can’t you do that with a PDF?

I could. And I have. But I am not a fan of PDFs in general; I’d rather use a Word doc or a rich text file. And iBooks won’t mark up PDFs; you need a third party app such as Papers.

So why go to the effort of downloading iBooks Author when I could get another free app and use a PDF?

On the iPad, iBooks has a number of useful built in options, making it possible for readers to mark up e-text the same way they’d mark up a print version. To date, you can:

• add bookmarks
• highlight in yellow, green, blue, pink or purple
• add scrolling sticky notes
• underline in red.

Can I get my notes off the iPad?

iBooks study cards for export

Yes. Your notes (not highlights, unfortunately), are also easily converted to study cards and exported. Within the book, tap to bring up the top nav and select the icon that looks like a study card to reveal a list of your notes. Then you can select what you want and email the notes. Each note will show your comments, a page number, a chapter, and a date.

So how do you use it?

Most of the time, I make notes on the iPad then input the changes manually–it really is like using a print version, but without the risk of losing a page. I also color code my notes, using yellow for deletions, blue for additions, pink for ideas, and red underlining for clunky wordy. When I’ve completed an edit, I mark it green, so I can see my progress at a glance.

Although iBooks doesn’t replace the track changes function in Word, it’s a useful editing tool, especially if you’re only making comments (as opposed to highlighting sections for later reading/study). So far, I’ve found it best for larger documents (in the 20-80k range), although, if the notes are complex, I often end up using my bluetooth keyboard.

iBooks notes after export and emailing

And for less complex work? Anything under 10 pages isn’t worth the effort of setting up the file unless you want to use images/view i

A quick apology for the multiple hire me posts that showed up in the ILBNH feed tonight. There was some confusion between my sites this evening, and a URL redirect messed with this one. I’m in the process of updating my nameplate and professional site–in relation to my current project–hence the post content.

Thanks for being understanding, blogosphere. Happy Friday, everyone.

If you’ve read any Greek mythology, you know how it stays with you. The stories are everywhere in pop culture, the trappings apparent in everything–words, common metaphors, even fashion. I devoured Greek mythology–along with Roman, Norse, Egyptian, Chinese, and Japanese mythologies–as a child, then later, as a teen. Sometime in my early twenties, it fell by the wayside; I started reading less mythology and more analysis thereof. But the stories themselves remained with me, because mythology has a habit of doing that. It sneaks up on you at the most unexpected moment and whispers things like “Yes, that is a totally Oedipal subplot in the novel you’re reading, but I’ll bet no one actually ends up blind,” or “Hey girl, see how you’re jealous of your two best friends because they’re talking to that guy? That’s so Ill(iad) of you!”

And sometimes, when you’re stuck in a no sleep rut, lying in the dark save for your kid’s Twilight Turtle, with a too-amped-up to sleep kid, Mythology will come to the rescue. Sure, you could pick up an illustrated D’Aulaire’s and read it before bed.  But there’s something about telling myths, about sharing oral stories, that’s well-suited to the dark. And once you get past explaining the concept of gods and goddesses, the stories themselves are easy to tell–and rather enthralling, even for the least attentive of kids.

Mythology and Your Toddler: How to Get Started

Not all myths are kid appropriate. Aside from the obvious themes–chasing down unwilling women/nymphs, for example–some stories, like Echo & Narcissus, are too slow moving for small attention spans. But stories about things kids are used to, like the moon, the stars, and the sun, are always a hit. So are action stories, like the labors of Heracles and Thesus & the Minotaur (just gloss over the whole punishment, lying with a bull part). Most myths are easily shortened, or broken into sections, too, so you’re not recounting hours’ worth of lineage to a bored toddler in the dark.

Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!

taken at Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, Mass.

I have been treading on leaves all day until I am autumn tired…

They spoke to the fugitive in my heart as if it were leaf to leaf.
They tapped at my eyelids and touched my lips with an invitation to grief.
But it was no reason I had to go because they had to go.
Now up, my knee, to keep on top of another year of snow.

~ Robert Frost, The Leaf Treader

Robert Frost was my first American poet. The first time I read this poem, many years ago, it returned me to Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Perhaps a staggered re-reading of the pair, author and poet together, is in order.

taken at Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, Mass.

I have been treading on leaves all day until I am autumn tired…

They spoke to the fugitive in my heart as if it were leaf to leaf.
They tapped at my eyelids and touched my lips with an invitation to grief.
But it was no reason I had to go because they had to go.
Now up, my knee, to keep on top of another year of snow.

~ Robert Frost, The Leaf Treader

Robert Frost was my first American poet. The first time I read this poem, many years ago, it returned me to Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Perhaps a staggered re-reading of the pair, author and poet together, is in order.

taken at Drumlin Farm in Lincoln, Mass.

I have been treading on leaves all day until I am autumn tired…

They spoke to the fugitive in my heart as if it were leaf to leaf.
They tapped at my eyelids and touched my lips with an invitation to grief.
But it was no reason I had to go because they had to go.
Now up, my knee, to keep on top of another year of snow.

~ Robert Frost, The Leaf Treader

Robert Frost was my first American poet. The first time I read this poem, many years ago, it returned me to Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Perhaps a staggered re-reading of the pair, author and poet together, is in order.

For those who didn’t catch it on GalleyCat or in The Guardian, a remarkable, new-slash-mixed-media artist has been leaving some rather stunning paper sculptures at libraries and other cultural institutions around Scotland.

The sculptures–usually addressed to the recipient’s Twitter account–are astonishing, tiny marvels of fantastic bookishness. It is particularly dorky, I know, but this one actually made me tear up a little.

There’s been a bit of discussion about who the artist is, with several folks suggesting Su Blackwell, though one commenter on the original post says it’s definitely not Blackwell’s work. Much as I’d like to know, though, I love that these gifts are anonymous tokens of bookish love. Hopefully, they’ll still be on display when I eventually get to visit the Scotland (my mum is from Glasgow, and yet I’ve never been…).

So far, gifts have been made to:

• the Scottish Poetry Library, @byleaveswelive (I love this handle)
• the National Library of Scotland, @natlibscot
• the Filmhouse (home of the Edinburgh international film festival), @filmhouse
• the Scottish Storytelling Centre, @scotstorycentre
• the Edinburgh international book festival, @edbookfest
• UNESCO Edinburgh City of Literature, @edencityoflit (my favorite)
• the Central Lending Library on George IV bridge, @Edinburgh_CC

See them all, with photos by Chrisdonia, here, then pass them on. Also, a few fun pics with the tree sculpture and Ian Rankin @ Anna-Not-Karenina’s post on the Edinburgh Book Festival.

0 Comments on Gorgeous Paper Sculptures Pop Up Around Edinburgh as of 1/1/1900

For those who didn’t catch it on GalleyCat or in The Guardian, a remarkable, new-slash-mixed-media artist has been leaving some rather stunning paper sculptures at libraries and other cultural institutions around Scotland.

The sculptures–usually addressed to the recipient’s Twitter account–are astonishing, tiny marvels of fantastic bookishness. It is particularly dorky, I know, but this one actually made me tear up a little.

There’s been a bit of discussion about who the artist is, with several folks suggesting Su Blackwell, though one commenter on the original post says it’s definitely not Blackwell’s work. Much as I’d like to know, though, I love that these gifts are anonymous tokens of bookish love. Hopefully, they’ll still be on display when I eventually get to visit the Scotland (my mum is from Glasgow, and yet I’ve never been…).

So far, gifts have been made to:

• the Scottish Poetry Library, @byleaveswelive (I love this handle)
• the National Library of Scotland, @natlibscot
• the Filmhouse (home of the Edinburgh international film festival), @filmhouse
• the Scottish Storytelling Centre, @scotstorycentre
• the Edinburgh international book festival, @edbookfest
• UNESCO Edinburgh City of Literature, @edencityoflit (my favorite)
• the Central Lending Library on George IV bridge, @Edinburgh_CC

See them all, with photos by Chrisdonia, here, then pass them on. Also, a few fun pics with the tree sculpture and Ian Rankin @ Anna-Not-Karenina’s post on the Edinburgh Book Festival.

For those who didn’t catch it on GalleyCat or in The Guardian, a remarkable, new-slash-mixed-media artist has been leaving some rather stunning paper sculptures at libraries and other cultural institutions around Scotland.

The sculptures–usually addressed to the recipient’s Twitter account–are astonishing, tiny marvels of fantastic bookishness. It is particularly dorky, I know, but this one actually made me tear up a little.

There’s been a bit of discussion about who the artist is, with several folks suggesting Su Blackwell, though one commenter on the original post says it’s definitely not Blackwell’s work. Much as I’d like to know, though, I love that these gifts are anonymous tokens of bookish love. Hopefully, they’ll still be on display when I eventually get to visit the Scotland (my mum is from Glasgow, and yet I’ve never been…).

So far, gifts have been made to:

• the Scottish Poetry Library, @byleaveswelive (I love this handle)
• the National Library of Scotland, @natlibscot
• the Filmhouse (home of the Edinburgh international film festival), @filmhouse
• the Scottish Storytelling Centre, @scotstorycentre
• the Edinburgh international book festival, @edbookfest
• UNESCO Edinburgh City of Literature, @edencityoflit (my favorite)
• the Central Lending Library on George IV bridge, @Edinburgh_CC

See them all, with photos by Chrisdonia, here, then pass them on. Also, a few fun pics with the tree sculpture and Ian Rankin @ Anna-Not-Karenina’s post on the Edinburgh Book Festival.

While pulling covers for another post on Friday night, I tried to grab a cover for the Salinger classic Catcher in the Rye on barnesandnoble.com. And here’s the result (image composited from two screen caps):

At 11:46:

Did the back to school rush wipe out B&N’s stock? Or is it just inventory error? And since when are the Eragon series, James Patterson, and Stephen King shelved next to Catcher?

Strangely enough, a second search revealed a more reassuring result:

At 12:08:

B&N also has my other fave Salinger, Franny and Zooey, in stock, so props for carrying the lesser known of the two.

Interestingly, I had the same error when I searched for Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash. Has this happened to anyone else?

While pulling covers for another post on Friday night, I tried to grab a cover for the Salinger classic Catcher in the Rye on barnesandnoble.com. And here’s the result (image composited from two screen caps):

At 11:46:

Did the back to school rush wipe out B&N’s stock? Or is it just inventory error? And since when are the Eragon series, James Patterson, and Stephen King shelved next to Catcher?

Strangely enough, a second search revealed a more reassuring result:

At 12:08:

B&N also has my other fave Salinger, Franny and Zooey, in stock, so props for carrying the lesser known of the two.

Interestingly, I had the same error when I searched for Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash. Has this happened to anyone else?

While pulling covers for another post on Friday night, I tried to grab a cover for the Salinger classic Catcher in the Rye on barnesandnoble.com. And here’s the result (image composited from two screen caps):

At 11:46:

Did the back to school rush wipe out B&N’s stock? Or is it just inventory error? And since when are the Eragon series, James Patterson, and Stephen King shelved next to Catcher?

Strangely enough, a second search revealed a more reassuring result:

At 12:08:

B&N also has my other fave Salinger, Franny and Zooey, in stock, so props for carrying the lesser known of the two.

Interestingly, I had the same error when I searched for Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash. Has this happened to anyone else?

While pulling covers for another post on Friday night, I tried to grab a cover for the Salinger classic Catcher in the Rye on barnesandnoble.com. And here’s the result (image composited from two screen caps):

At 11:46:

Did the back to school rush wipe out B&N’s stock? Or is it just inventory error? And since when are the Eragon series, James Patterson, and Stephen King shelved next to Catcher?

Strangely enough, a second search revealed a more reassuring result:

At 12:08:

B&N also has my other fave Salinger, Franny and Zooey, in stock, so props for carrying the lesser known of the two.

Interestingly, I had the same error when I searched for Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash. Has this happened to anyone else?

Being a mother is making me existential.

A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend at a coffee shop, someone I don’t see often enough. And while we were chatting, I had an epiphany.

Having children hollows you  It scoops out all the dross and guts and congealed ideas until you’re left with yourself at your most basic. Luxuries–showers, full bottles of tabasco sauce, unattached, unassigned time–give way to necessities. Necessities like emptying the diaper pail, rushing out for diapers in the middle of the night¹, or always having an applesauce pouch tucked about my person.

Somehow, over a blurred series of sleepless nights, I’ve grown from a tabasco-loving neurotic into a relatively calm mum, the kind who laughs and uses words like kiddo and is almost always covered in goop, or paint, or stickers.

Yesterday, I found a yellow crane sticker on my shoulder. I’m not sure how long it was there, but since I’m in a cast (broken hand) and couldn’t reach (despite thirty minutes of trying), it had to wait until I saw Joe six hours later. Even then, I’d've probably forgotten if the dratted thing hadn’t itched.

I do not know how this happened, where the calm, or the patience, or the normalcy has come from.

For the most part, I don’t mind the hollowness–the extra space can always be filled with chocolate. And I like being described as patient, and easy-going, like having people give me credit for my child’s awesomeness, even though I’m pretty sure his even temperament and propensity toward sharing are less Peta and more dumb luck. And I still have neurotic days, though, in some ways, having a broken hand is a blessing. After all, it’s hard to be overworked and neurotic when:

a. I can’t wash dishes;

b. I can’t open jars;

c. I can’t carry large, heavy grocery bags;

d. The kidlet is drawing butterflies on my cast.

¹Also, an upside down kimono shirt and a crapload of cotton wool work well in a pinch. Or a snowstorm. Or any night the walk to the all-night Shaw’s seems interminably long…

Being a mother is making me existential.

A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend at a coffee shop, someone I don’t see often enough. And while we were chatting, I had an epiphany.

Having children hollows you  It scoops out all the dross and guts and congealed ideas until you’re left with yourself at your most basic. Luxuries–showers, full bottles of tabasco sauce, unattached, unassigned time–give way to necessities. Necessities like emptying the diaper pail, rushing out for diapers in the middle of the night¹, or always having an applesauce pouch tucked about my person.

Somehow, over a blurred series of sleepless nights, I’ve grown from a tabasco-loving neurotic into a relatively calm mum, the kind who laughs and uses words like kiddo and is almost always covered in goop, or paint, or stickers.

Yesterday, I found a yellow crane sticker on my shoulder. I’m not sure how long it was there, but since I’m in a cast (broken hand) and couldn’t reach (despite thirty minutes of trying), it had to wait until I saw Joe six hours later. Even then, I’d've probably forgotten if the dratted thing hadn’t itched.

I do not know how this happened, where the calm, or the patience, or the normalcy has come from.

For the most part, I don’t mind the hollowness–the extra space can always be filled with chocolate. And I like being described as patient, and easy-going, like having people give me credit for my child’s awesomeness, even though I’m pretty sure his even temperament and propensity toward sharing are less Peta and more dumb luck. And I still have neurotic days, though, in some ways, having a broken hand is a blessing. After all, it’s hard to be overworked and neurotic when:

a. I can’t wash dishes;

b. I can’t open jars;

c. I can’t carry large, heavy grocery bags;

d. The kidlet is drawing butterflies on my cast.

¹Also, an upside down kimono shirt and a crapload of cotton wool work well in a pinch. Or a snowstorm. Or any night the walk to the all-night Shaw’s seems interminably long…

Being a mother is making me existential.

A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend at a coffee shop, someone I don’t see often enough. And while we were chatting, I had an epiphany.

Having children hollows you  It scoops out all the dross and guts and congealed ideas until you’re left with yourself at your most basic. Luxuries–showers, full bottles of tabasco sauce, unattached, unassigned time–give way to necessities. Necessities like emptying the diaper pail, rushing out for diapers in the middle of the night¹, or always having an applesauce pouch tucked about my person.

Somehow, over a blurred series of sleepless nights, I’ve grown from a tabasco-loving neurotic into a relatively calm mum, the kind who laughs and uses words like kiddo and is almost always covered in goop, or paint, or stickers.

Yesterday, I found a yellow crane sticker on my shoulder. I’m not sure how long it was there, but since I’m in a cast (broken hand) and couldn’t reach (despite thirty minutes of trying), it had to wait until I saw Joe six hours later. Even then, I’d've probably forgotten if the dratted thing hadn’t itched.

I do not know how this happened, where the calm, or the patience, or the normalcy has come from.

For the most part, I don’t mind the hollowness–the extra space can always be filled with chocolate. And I like being described as patient, and easy-going, like having people give me credit for my child’s awesomeness, even though I’m pretty sure his even temperament and propensity toward sharing are less Peta and more dumb luck. And I still have neurotic days, though, in some ways, having a broken hand is a blessing. After all, it’s hard to be overworked and neurotic when:

a. I can’t wash dishes;

b. I can’t open jars;

c. I can’t carry large, heavy grocery bags;

d. The kidlet is drawing butterflies on my cast.

¹Also, an upside down kimono shirt and a crapload of cotton wool work well in a pinch. Or a snowstorm. Or any night the walk to the all-night Shaw’s seems interminably long…

Being a mother is making me existential.

A few weeks ago, I ran into a friend at a coffee shop, someone I don’t see often enough. And while we were chatting, I had an epiphany.

Having children hollows you  It scoops out all the dross and guts and congealed ideas until you’re left with yourself at your most basic. Luxuries–showers, full bottles of tabasco sauce, unattached, unassigned time–give way to necessities. Necessities like emptying the diaper pail, rushing out for diapers in the middle of the night¹, or always having an applesauce pouch tucked about my person.

Somehow, over a blurred series of sleepless nights, I’ve grown from a tabasco-loving neurotic into a relatively calm mum, the kind who laughs and uses words like kiddo and is almost always covered in goop, or paint, or stickers.

Yesterday, I found a yellow crane sticker on my shoulder. I’m not sure how long it was there, but since I’m in a cast (broken hand) and couldn’t reach (despite thirty minutes of trying), it had to wait until I saw Joe six hours later. Even then, I’d've probably forgotten if the dratted thing hadn’t itched.

I do not know how this happened, where the calm, or the patience, or the normalcy has come from.

For the most part, I don’t mind the hollowness–the extra space can always be filled with chocolate. And I like being described as patient, and easy-going, like having people give me credit for my child’s awesomeness, even though I’m pretty sure his even temperament and propensity toward sharing are less Peta and more dumb luck. And I still have neurotic days, though, in some ways, having a broken hand is a blessing. After all, it’s hard to be overworked and neurotic when:

a. I can’t wash dishes;

b. I can’t open jars;

c. I can’t carry large, heavy grocery bags;

d. The kidlet is drawing butterflies on my cast.

¹Also, an upside down kimono shirt and a crapload of cotton wool work well in a pinch. Or a snowstorm. Or any night the walk to the all-night Shaw’s seems interminably long…

This post was first published in March 2010, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. As I wind up the first draft of a new project–I’m in that mad, almost love-drunk rush that comes with knowing the end is nigh–I keep drifting back to these three questions:

1. Can I wrap this up without leaving a tangled mess of loose ends?

2. Have I revealed enough for the end to work, or is it just a poorly fashioned deus ex machina?

3. Am I forcing my leads into roles they don’t want?

And these three, in turn keep bringing me back to the ultimate two: Will my book be satisfying? And is it engaging?

* * *

See my follow-up, “What Makes a Book Satisfying?” here.

Reading is quite the investment. Not just in terms of monetary cost, but in terms of time spent reading the story, digesting the story, and, if it’s a very good book (or if you’re a deep reader), thinking about the story afterward. Some books are clearly worth the investment (Pride & Prejudice anyone? Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle? L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time?), while others are a win-some-lose-some deal. And then there are the books we give our hearts to freely, only to have the world’s most unsatisfying ending snatch them away.

Unsatisfying Books

So what makes a book satisfying? It’s hard to pin down, partially because it’s easier to work out what’s unsatisfying.
This month, I’ve read four books, two of which (Suzanne Collins’ Catching Fire and Jasper Fforde’s Shades of Grey) had supremely unsatisfying endings. The latter hurt my heart/brain/squeeglesquawk so much that it kept me up the better part of last night.

Picking over the bones of these stories, and a few others I’ve found unsatisfying over the past year or two, I’ve found that the majority of unsatisfying books are those that don’t wrap up properly. At the end of the book, it’s hard to say exactly what it’s about, why we loved/hated it because we don’t really know it. For me, these books are like a song I only kinda-sorta know–the chorus gets stuck in my head, but I can’t recall the singer/band, or resolve the melody without depending on an annoying Hey Jude like fade.

Although it may seem unfair to count Catching Fire as a book I found unsatisfying because it’s part of a series, I think a series book with a frustrating wrap-up is

This post was first published in March 2010, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. As I wind up the first draft of a new project–I’m in that mad, almost love-drunk rush that comes with knowing the end is nigh–I keep drifting back to these three questions:

1. Can I wrap this up without leaving a tangled mess of loose ends?

2. Have I revealed enough for the end to work, or is it just a poorly fashioned deus ex machina?

3. Am I forcing my leads into roles they don’t want?

And these three, in turn keep bringing me back to the ultimate two: Will my book be satisfying? And is it engaging?

ETA: the original Catching Fire image was having issues, so I’ve replaced it with these German covers instead. I like this much better, anyway.

* * *

See my follow-up, “What Makes a Book Satisfying?” here.

Reading is quite the investment. Not just in terms of monetary cost, but in terms of time spent reading the story, digesting the story, and, if it’s a very good book (or if you’re a deep reader), thinking about the story afterward. Some books are clearly worth the investment (Pride & Prejudice anyone? Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle? L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time?), while others are a win-some-lose-some deal. And then there are the books we give our hearts to freely, only to have the world’s most unsatisfying ending snatch them away.

Unsatisfying Books

So what makes a book satisfying? It’s hard to pin down, partially because it’s easier to work out what’s unsatisfying.
This month, I’ve read four books, two of which (Suzanne Collins’ Catching Fire and Jasper Fforde’s Shades of Grey) had supremely unsatisfying endings. The latter hurt my heart/brain/squeeglesquawk so much that it kept me up the better part of last night.

Picking over the bones of these stories, and a few others I’ve found unsatisfying over the past year or two, I’ve found that the majority of unsatisfying books are those that don’t wrap up properly. At the end of the book, it’s hard to say exactly what it’s about, why we loved/hated it because we don’t really know it. For me, these books are like a song I only kinda-sorta know–the chorus gets stuck in my head, but I can’t recall the singer/band, or resolve the melody without depending on an annoying H