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Most of us worry about having our identity stolen and our online accounts commandeered, but what if the impersonator presents us in a better light? It's fascinating to read the story of Jack O'Rourke grappling with this very dilemma, if that's what you'd call it. Ferris fans will want to pick this one up! Books [...]

Ever wonder what Amazon editors like to read? Well, the group has complied a list of their favorite reads for the month of May.

The top 10 list includes a number of fiction and nonfiction titles. No Place to Hide: Edward Snowden, the NSA, and the U.S. Surveillance State by Glenn Greenwald; To Rise Again at a Decent Hour: A Novel by Joshua Ferris; and The Painter: A Novel by Peter Heller, all made the list.

We’ve embedded the entire list after the jump for you to explore further.

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New Career Opportunities Daily: The best jobs in media.

Reagan Arthur, the editorial director of Little, Brown’s Reagan Arthur Books imprint, will be the next publisher and senior VP of Little, Brown. She will assume her new role on April 1st as Michael Pietsch becomes the new CEO of Hachette Book Group.

The release included this news: “In stepping into the role of Publisher, Arthur will retire the Reagan Arthur Books imprint she has led for three years.”

Arthur has worked at Little, Brown since 2001, earning her own imprint in 2008. She has edited Tina Fey, Joshua Ferris, Kate Atkinson, George Pelecanos and Ian Rankin.

continued…

New Career Opportunities Daily: The best jobs in media.

It’s the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, except the writer throwing her manuscript across the room. What words will Santa give her? Gifts of ‘stillicide’ or ‘ectoplasm’ for her National Book Award — or lumps of coal for failing NaNoWriMo. We’d like to share a few reflections on terrible words from writers such as David Foster Wallace, Zadie Smith, and Michael Dirda in the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus below.

Joshua Ferris says “Bah, humbug” to… ACTUALLY

Actually is a fashionable word circa 2011, especially in colloquial, voice-driven contemporary writing, and it’s all over the place in everyday speech. It’s used wrongly and excessively, even speciously, and is one of the worst tics of tendentious writing. As a qualifier, it’s fine (Jack is actually eleven, not twelve). As an intensifier (like its brothers literally, really, utterly, and totally), it attempts to replace subjective opinion for objective fact (the play was actually a lot better than Jack thought it was). One can’t use a word that means ‘existing in fact, real’ in the context of something debatable or contentious. I’d suggest a basic usage rule that says whenever you can replace actually with in my opinion, the actually should be avoided.

Zadie Smith says “Bah, humbug” to… BARREN

Nullipara. A woman who has never given birth to a child. One of the few nouns referring to the sexual/reproductive/aging status of a woman that is not in any way pejorative, simply because it is almost never used. Should be printed on T-shirts.

Michael Dirda says “Bah, humbug” to… BRAVE

Excepting the few who boldly confront oppressive laws or governments (Émile Zola, Anna Akhmatova), or those who join fighting brigades where they risk being killed in battle (Ernst Junger, Andre Malraux), no writer should be referred to as brave. Too often modern poets are called brave—or daring or fearless—simply because they write openly about being lonely, sexually frustrated, or drug-dependent. Worse yet, critics sometime present the verbal equivalent of the Silver Star to some assistant professor attempting an unfashionable verse form in his latest contribution to the Powhatan Review. That’s not quite what placing your life on the line means. Save all those courageous adjectives for coal miners, firefighters, and the truly heroic.

David Foster Wallace says “Bah, humbug” to… INDIVIDUAL

As a noun, this word has one legitimate use, which is to distinguish a single person from some larger group: one of the enduring oppositions of British literature is that between the individual and society; or boy, she’s a real individual. I don’t like it as a synonym for person despite the fact that much legal, bureaucratic, and public-statement prose uses it that way—it looms large in turgid writing like law-enforcement personnel apprehended the individual as he was attempting to exit the premises. Individual for person and an individual for someone are pretentious, deadening puff-words; eschew them.

David Auburn says “Bah, humbug” to… QUIRKY

Just as the British use clever as a backhanded insult, meaning ‘merely clever, not actually intelligent or thoughtful,’ quirky is often used to mean ‘mildly and harmlessly peculiar’ with ‘and totally uninteresting’ implied. I hate quirky and hate having it applied to my own writing. I would rather receive a negative review that didn’t use this word than a rave that did.

Francine Prose says “Bah, humbug” to… SCUD

Once I heard a teacher tell a seventh-grade class that this was precisely the sort of verb they should use to make their writing livelier and more interesting. The example she gave was: The storm clouds scudded over the horizon. In fact, this is precisely the sort of word—words that call unnecessary attention to themselves, that sound artificial and stop the reader in mid-sentence—that should not be used for that reason. Or for any reason. When in doubt, use a simpler and more everyday word, and try to make the content of the sentence livelier and more interesting, which is always a better idea. If you don’t have anything fresh to report about the rapidly moving clouds, writing that they scudded won’t help.

David Lehman says “Bah, humbug” to… SYNERGY

Some words don’t work. Synergy is one of them. Theoretically it makes sense. Synergy is a business term, corporate-speak for the advantages of amalgamating the operations of several different but related companies. When, for example, a book publisher merges with a movie studio, one reason given is that there are bound to be significant synergies: ways one branch of the new structure can feed the other. It turns out, however, that the concept is flawed; these mergers seldom go according to plan. And that is surely why you hear the word only in the business news, among executives and mouthpieces for whom hope springs eternal.

Suleiman Osman says “Bah, humbug” to… TECHNICALLY

When someone starts a phrase with the word technically, he or she almost always follows with a statement that is useless or wrong. This is particularly true when a person is using the term as a way to correct someone gently. “Technically, the city is called Par-ee.” Who has not been enjoying a view of a lovely body of water and muttered to oneself “what a beautiful bay,” only to be interrupted by someone who points out that “technically it’s a sound.” Feel free to tell him or her that “technically” there is no difference between a sound, bay, firth, gulf, cove, bight, or fjord. There are only different local conventions. Or if you aren’t sure, you can always ask “technically, according to whom?”

Tell us the words you say “Bah, humbug” to in the comments below.

Much more than a word list, the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus is a browsable source of inspiration as well as an authoritative guide to selecting and using vocabulary. This essential guide for writers provides real-life example sentences and a careful selection of the most relevant synonyms, as well as new usage notes, hints for choosing between similar words, a Word Finder section organized by subject, and a comprehensive language guide. The text is also peppered with thought-provoking reflections on favorite (and not-so-favorite) words by noted contemporary writers, including Joshua Ferris, Francine Prose, David Foster Wallace, Zadie Smith, and Simon Winchester, many newly commissioned for this edition.

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The post Words like lumps of coal appeared first on OUPblog.

How do you choose the right word? Some just don’t fit what you’re trying to convey, either in the labor of love prose for your creative writing class, or the rogue auto-correct function on your phone.

Can you shed lacerations instead of tears? How is the word barren an attack on women? How do writers such as Joshua Ferris, Francine Prose, David Foster Wallace, Zadie Smith, and Simon Winchester weigh and inveigh against words?

We sat down with Katherine Martin and Allison Wright, editors of the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus, to discuss what makes a word distinctive from others and what writers can teach you about language.

Writing Today, the Choice of Words, and the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus

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Reflections in the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus

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The Use and Abuse of a Thesaurus

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Katherine Martin is Head of US Dictionaries at Oxford University Press. Allison Wright is Editor, US Dictionaries at Oxford University Press.

Much more than a word list, the Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus is a browsable source of inspiration as well as an authoritative guide to selecting and using vocabulary. This essential guide for writers provides real-life example sentences and a careful selection of the most relevant synonyms, as well as new usage notes, hints for choosing between similar words, a Word Finder section organized by subject, and a comprehensive language guide. The third edition revises and updates this innovative reference, adding hundreds of new words, senses, and phrases to its more than 300,000 synonyms and 10,000 antonyms. New features in this edition include over 200 literary and humorous quotations highlighting notable usages of words, and a revised graphical word toolkit feature showing common word combinations based on evidence in the Oxford Corpus. There is also a new introduction by noted language commentator Ben Zimmer.

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Salon chose eight novel excerpts for its first Good Sex in Fiction Contest, and asked Louis Bayard, Walter Kirn, Laura Miller, and me to judge and discuss them. I ranked the Franzen highest, and also outed myself as a total pervert.

The problem with these excerpts is — and I didn’t entirely realize this until I started reading for the contest — that the sex I respond to most in fiction is really fucked-up. It’s definitely not that I want to experience the anonymous sexual assaults of Nicholson Baker’s The Fermata (though I confess, I did think that book was hot, in its autistic way), or get involved with a porn-obsessed televangelist as in A.L. Kennedy’s Original Bliss, or abduct a man and use him as my sex slave, as in Rupert Thomson’s The Book of Revelation, but those stories stay with me because they reveal something incredibly dark and twisted and, to me, true about desire and obsession. I like fiction, whatever the subject, that exposes the surprising longings its characters harbor in their heart of hearts. Mary Gaitskill’s “The Other Place,” in the latest New Yorker, is a perfect example, though it’s not actually about sex at all.

You can read the contenders, the winner (from my pal James Hynes’ Next), and our discussion over at Salon. For more distorted sexuality in fiction recommendations, see The Paris Review Daily’s latest advice column. I also love my friend Alexander Chee’s fabulously disturbing and complex Edinburgh. And finally, I re-recommend James Hynes’ piece on “The Dreamlife of Rupert Thomson.”

What happens to a writer's brain in a cubicle? 

That's the question Joshua Ferris answers in his National Book Award nominated novel, Then We Came to the End. Over the course of that wonderful book, he plays with narration, dayjob fantasies and the lives of creative people working in cubicles in Chicago.

If you haven't read the book, you need to do two different things. First, watch this video interview I did with National Book Award winner Sherman Alexie and NBA finalist Joshua Ferris--find out first-hand how two writers escaped the dayjob grind. 

Then, stop by the excellent literary blog The Elegant Variation and win yourself a signed copy of the book. Check it out:

"we are offering not one, not two but three signed copies of Then We Came to the End.  As ever, as always, drop us a line, subject line "GET ME ON THE FERRIS WHEEL" (sorry, Joshua) or, for select L.A. residents "HERE'S MY TRULY EXCELLENT REASON FOR NOT BEING IN SANTA MONICA TONIGHT."  We'll take all comers until precisely 7 p.m. PST."

“Okay, Hayashi and me fixed the Call of the Huntress page, and we got all of the links linked and the pages where they’re supposed to be.”

“Goody, ’cause I wanna read more about Shannon-sama and her big magical kitty cat named Kishi. There’s six previews now, huh?”

“Yes, and they’re all linked from the Call of the Huntress Preview Page. The four-part Plot Against the Vicereine Story is linked together as well, so you can read all four parts in sequence.”

“Sweet.”

“Hey everyone. We’ve had quite a few updates for the third book in our series, Call of the Huntress, so I thought it would be a good idea to make a list of what we’ve previewed so far.”

“That’s a great idea Shannon-sama!”

“Thanks, Hoshi! Okay, our first preview was By the Light of the Stars which is the story of the Warrior of the Night battling reptile-like monsters called Carcs.”

“Yucky. I don’t like monsters.”

“The second update was a four-part series called the Plot Against the Vicereine, about a noble in Aventar who gets attacked by evil assassins. Here’s Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four.”

“The Vicereine seems like she’s real strong. I hope we don’t have to fight her.”

“Yeah, but she gave that little boy a silver coin even though the price of the flower was a lot less. I think that was really nice.”

“Yeah! That was nice, huh? I wonder what a cruss ring is though.”

“So how come you decided to do a preview roundup today?”

“Guess.”

“Ooh! You’re gonna have another preview?! Realeeeee?”

“Check back later today everyone! A brand new exclusive preview from Book Three of our series Call of the Huntress, right here. See ya then!”

“Don’t miss the new preview! Ja minna!”

LadyStar™ Call of the Huntress is Copyright © 2007 Heavy Cat Multimedia Ltd. All Rights Reserved
Read Part One
Read Part Two
Read Part Three

Reina picked her way down the wooden stairs outside the Inn. It was approaching late evening, but the bustle of the marketplace continued by the light of dozens of lanterns, torches and the occasional roasting fire. The boy she had encountered before dinner was still waiting outside expectantly.

“A lily for the madam? A lily for the madam?” the boy said enthusiastically. Reina stopped and looked down at him. He seemed completely undaunted by her dark robes or cowl. He was filthy, but had managed to wash some of the accumulated grime from his face.

Orphaned, no home, and selling stolen lilies, Reina concluded without speaking. A guard pushed past two large inebriated stablehands and waved his hands at the boy, who cowered.

“That will be your last warning!” the guard shouted, then froze at the sight of the Vicereine. The officer lowered his hands almost in a gesture of surrender. Reina stood regally and looked the guard over once, fixing on his boots. She picked up her staff as an old woman might pick up a broom, reached out with its tip and tapped his right boot a few times as if testing a loose floorboard.

“The Captain will be most unhappy to find his men wearing second-hand boots,” Reina said, tilting her head sarcastically as if trying to get a better look at a confusing object. “I’ve heard tales of boots that look exactly like a Square Guard’s for sale in the curio shop.”

“Handsome replicas, madam,” the guard replied, then swallowed nervously. Reina looked up. One corner of the guard’s mouth rose sheepishly.

“Indeed,” Reina said, drawing the word out. The guard could not see her raised eyebrow.

“What is your price for this lily?” Reina turned back to the boy and indicated the flower at one edge of his wooden box.

“Three cruss rings,” the boy replied, his voice shaky as he glanced at the guard.

“Three? My boy, this lily.” Reina leaned down and pointed with emphasis. “This light-colored lily right here was but two rings before dinner. Have lilies become so rare between appetizer and dessert that I should pay another ring?” The boy hesitated. Reina held her jaw tightly. Finally the boy inhaled sharply.

“The price is three cruss rings for one lily,” he said as fast and as bravely as he could.

The Vicereine stood back up straight and reached across her waist with the opposite hand for her coin purse.

“You’re an honest bargainer,” Reina stated flatly. Then she presented the boy with a bright silver monarch. The boy’s eyes widened as he watched. The priceless rings on each of the Vicereine’s slender fingers gleamed in the light of the Inn’s lanterns. She carefully placed the coin in his flower box, then leaned close and spoke quietly.

“Do not spend this precious coin, but keep it for a worthy day. Perhaps on that day honesty such as yours will return to the streets of Aventar.”

The boy looked up and nodded as he handed Reina her flower. She carefully took it, stood up straight and nodded. The boy smiled and Reina turned to the guard.

“I look forward to that day, officer. Don’t you?” Reina asked as she slowly carried her flower up the slight incline of the marketplace street. The guard’s expression changed to that of someone caught stealing something of little value, then he glanced down at his right boot.

Kenesh dared not move. He had almost become the shadow that concealed him. He could hear the tapping sound of the Vicereine’s staff and the sound of her robes dragging on the stony ground as she slowly passed an empty flax cart a few blocks east of the marketplace. A massive smooth-bladed knife dripped with lethal poison at his side. The streets of the east square were dimly lit, and the flat aroma of a cooling potter’s kiln hung damply in the air of the narrow alley Reina approached.

Reina slowly came into view and Kenesh took immediate note of the twin iron chains around her waist. They were the rare and unique badge of station of the scribe arcanists, and if Kenesh could make off with them…

“Donation for the food, er, for the poor, my lady?” a small wiry man stammered, rattling a cup with one hand and pretending not to be able to see as he wandered across the Vicereine’s path. Reina stopped and inhaled as she prepared a reply, then her instincts shouted “danger.”

Kenesh Drun struck with both speed and savagery. He reached around Reina’s head with his right hand, and his heavy metal claw raked across the Vicereine’s cowl. It was an attack meant to blind his victim and expose them to his blade. But Reina did not turn, nor did she appear affected by the slashing of four razor sharp hooks across her face. Having no time to change strategies, Kenesh drove his knife into Reina’s back. He failed to notice the subtle change in the consistency of her robes until a grotesque snapping sound jarred his single-minded focus. A screaming lightning bolt of pain shot up his left arm as he lost his balance, stumbling to his left. The two pieces of his poisoned knife clattered to the ground as he fell.

Nako howled his best attempt at a battle cry and attacked frontally, holding his much smaller knife over his head, blade down. Reina reached out with her off-hand and caught Nako’s arm at the wrist as he drove his knife down towards her chest. Reina turned slightly to one side and twisted her grip. The turn pulled Nako off balance and very nearly broke both bones in his wrist. His knife fell out of his hand as Reina threw him to one side. Nako crashed face-first into the far brick wall, knocking crates to the ground and scattering the tin plates stacked on them.

By now Kenesh was back on his feet. He hesitated for a moment in alarm, realizing the darkness splashed across his left hand was not blood, but his poison. Before he had even a moment to be grateful for the protection of his gloves, Reina turned. Her entire body seemed to radiate an immensely powerful energy even as it absorbed what little light remained in the alley. Kenesh felt the blood in his spine turn to ice as the Vicereine’s narrow eyes became visible from under her cowl, slowly brightening to the enraged color of glowing blood.

She began to speak, but her words seemed to be alternately miles away and right next to Kenesh’s ears. Her many voices formed an ocean of shadows beneath them and the alleyway began to warp and shift around the darkening figure he faced.

Whispers from another place reached into his mind. They spoke of cold and friendless places, where pain flowed across the ground like a spiderweb of tiny rivers. They pried into his consciousness muttering foulness he could have scarcely imagined in his most craven avarice. Kenesh felt his throat tighten and he scrambled to escape, but his body refused to obey his one overwhelmed attempt at a rational thought.

Hidden corners of his being began to drip with shadow, and slowly began to strangle the light from his vision. He had to get away.

A high pitched night-piercing screech tore through the air as Kenesh ran over the gate bridge towards the swamp. Something horrid pursued him. He could run all the way to the edge of the swamps, but he knew he would never get away. Never. Yet still he ran, even as his hair turned white and fell from his head, taking the skin off his skull with it. He put his hands up to his face and screamed forever.

Nako wheezed and reached up with both hands to pull at Reina’s grip as she lifted him off the ground by the throat. His face bulged in pain as Reina held her twisted staff to one side and spoke words of such power that each syllable threatened to weaken the stonework of the nearby buildings. Nako’s skin began to darken and still the Vicereine tightened her grip. Her voice lowered to a whisper as Nako’s eyes fell back into his head and his hands fell limply to his sides.

Reina contemptuously threw the rotting skeletal remains of the defeated assassin against the wall, shattering the brittle bones into dozens of pieces, each of which continued to decay as she turned back to Kenesh, whose ghostly face remained frozen as the screams continued to echo through his rapidly deteriorating mind.

She took a step forward and stopped. Kenesh seemed to notice suddenly and scrabbled backwards. He was unarmed and there was nowhere to run. Reina picked up the broken blade of Kenesh’s knife from the stony floor of the alleyway, then continued approaching him as she examined it. Kenesh pushed back, his shoulders scraping the brick wall as he got to his feet. Reina stopped inches away, her hands covered in the poison from the blade. Her slender hands seemed to heal themselves just as quickly as the poison ate through the skin of her bluish fingers.

Kenesh knew better than to say a word. Reina leaned close and spoke evenly through gritted teeth. Kenesh held his breath, looking down at the shadow obscuring all but her chin.

“I was inventing poisons four hundred years before your grandfather learned to walk,” Reina spat the last word contemptuously as she turned away, dropping the useless piece of the knife on the ground.

“Do you know what it feels like to have a part of your body die while still attached to living flesh?” the Vicereine asked, stopping in the center of the alley.

Suddenly Kenesh felt as if every nerve was being drained through the sole of his left boot. He collapsed instantly as a cold, burrowing agony pierced the entire left side of his body. He looked down, eyes wide, and wailed until he nearly felt the inside of his throat burst. What was left of his left foot was nothing more than a putrified weight attached to a limb so infected that the very thought of moving it made his nerves boil over with pain. The Vicereine waited patiently for Kenesh’s howling to subside.

“Now you know.”

Kenesh panted as he failed to regain his balance. He leaned against the brick wall, a cruel cold sweat tormenting his parched tongue with a salty tang.

“Who sent you?” Reina asked. Kenesh did not answer. He could scarcely breathe.

“Answer me, or the agony that is now infecting every limb of your being will see two harvests before death releases you from it.” The Vicereine stood resolute, still seeming to dim the nearby lights with her mere presence. Kenesh stirred, preparing to draw a breath with which he might have managed a cough.

“The Merchants Guild?” Reina answered for him. “What plan did you hatch with those overfed hyenas? Did you expect to waylay me with your robber’s club like some baker of bread, and have me leaning against the alley semi-conscious while you fumble with your shriekbat venom and help yourself to my coinpurse?” Reina looked up at a nearby streetlamp. “Pity. I was in a fine mood before all this, too. I had a nice meal this evening. They served me cornbread.” She glanced back to Kenesh. “I like cornbread, don’t you?”

Kenesh sputtered and inhaled reflexively. Reina waited for a moment, then asked.

“Do you wish to be free of this curse?”

Kenesh attempted to nod his head, but instead his shoulders convulsed. His breathing was becoming slightly stronger.

“You will return to whichever of those fattened vermin sent you and inform them that the Vicereine sends her regards.” Reina lowered her voice to a menacing tone. “You will also inform them the blood of the next assassin sent after me will be used to dye my boots.” Reina turned to leave.

“You have one hour,” she said.

Kenesh’s next cough rattled alarmingly and with immense effort he slowly sat up and rasped a response.

“But it is two days ride.” Kenesh coughed the last words.

Reina stopped and slowly crouched to the alley floor to retrieve her light-colored lily. Then she continued along her original route.

“You have one hour.”

LadyStar™ Call of the Huntress is Copyright © 2007 Heavy Cat Multimedia Ltd. All Rights Reserved
Read Part One
Read Part Two

“You’re a fool. Gold monarchs are the coin of the Branven Merchants.” The small, wiry man twitched annoyingly as he dealt the next hand. “No man is desperate enough to face that problem.”

“You’re a bigger fool if you think I’m going to fall for card tricks after only two flagons,” Kenesh replied, throwing his cards down on the table. “We play corners to edges or I’ll take my business to Yicho. At least in the swamps I can get in a spot of fishing.” Nako shook his head as he shuffled the greasy cards. His face continued to twitch. Kenesh picked up a properly dealt hand and frowned at what he saw.

“What’s your plan?” the dealer chuckled as he opened a cheap bottle. “Wait in a dark alley for a scribe arcanist? She is called Vicereine as far north as Kulnas.” Kenesh became more and more agitated. “There are none in Aventar who even lived when such title was last granted!” The dealer almost shouted. Kenesh slammed his cards down on the table.

“This is my notched blade, Nako. One opportunity to make a career.” Kenesh hissed. “And a fortune to encrust it in jewels.”

“If you see five gold monarchs I’ll sell you the palace for them,” Nako replied. Then he shook his head. “More likely you’ll end up worse than dead.”

“Find me something foul that will finish the job quickly then,” Kenesh reclined. “Perhaps there will be a reward for you as well.”

Nako’s twitching only intensified. He sniffled and itched his right ear, then shook his head as he stood up.

“Going to get us both turned into wretched things that haunt the night,” he muttered, walking past a bloodstained curtain into a darkened alcove. Kenesh picked up Nako’s cards and saw he was still cheating, but had only changed techniques.

“Perhaps I’ll remove a few of your fingers so you’ll not pollute the world with any more of these infernal card tricks of yours!” Kenesh shouted into the back. A dusty wind caused the stained tarp at the front door of the small shack to twist and flap as flakes of dried grime littered the mutilated mat underneath it.

“Since I expect what’s in this bottle to kill you and your horse before you reach the marketplace, I’ll take my payment in advance,” Nako said, as he placed a bright metallic bottle in front of Kenesh and backed away.

“What is it?” Kenesh asked.

“It’s a contact poison made from the eye fluids of shriekbats. Oil your gloves and for the sake of all the swampwater in Gacenar, don’t get any on you,” Nako replied. “You’ll be dead before you feel it.”

“Weapons?” Kenesh squinted his pale eye.

“It will stick to any blade for months,” Nako replied. “You’ll have to burn it off, and don’t stand by the fire either.”

Kenesh picked up the bottle and hefted it. The fluid was much heavier than water, and seemed to be very thick. Kenesh felt it move very slowly from one side of the bottle to the other. It was a disorienting feeling. He put the bottle back down.

“Want to double your payment?” Kenesh asked, looking sideways at Nako, who licked his lips and twitched in response.

To be continued . . .

LadyStar™ Call of the Huntress is Copyright © 2007 Heavy Cat Multimedia Ltd. All Rights Reserved