Because I found out about it 9:30 Pacific time.

Anybody want a copy of the annotated Dragonlance chronicles? ‘Cos I sure as hell don’t.

I still have a few of those books, among them THE CASE OF THE MARBLE MONSTER AND OTHER STORIES, by I.G. Edmonds, which was about a samurai named Ooka Tadasuke, a Japanese magistrate of Edo who was so incredibly wise that he now has his own Wikipedia entry. Ooka was a trickster judge of the “rip the baby in half” variety, and I loved him. He was witty, he was smart, and he was kind. I read that book a hundred times. It’s survived every move and every book cull since.

One of the stories is “Ooka and the Honest Thief,” and begins thus:

One day, Yahichi, owner of a rice store, came to Ooka’s court, complaining that each night some of his rice disappeared.

“It is such a small amount that I hesitate to trouble your Honorable Honor,” Yahichi said, touching the ground with his head to show proper respect for the great magistrate. “But I am reminded of the story of the mountain that was reduced to a plain because a single grain was stolen from it each day for centuries.”

Supposing a random adult had told me, at that age: “Hey, small person–if you attempt to complete just a tiny bit of a big task every day, it’ll get done!” Odds are good that this simply wouldn’t have sunk in. But, wow. It says so in the Ooka book, and is therefore unquestionably true? Slow and steady actually does win the race? Dogged persistence can take down a frickin’ mountain? Coooool!

I believed; in a small way, on that day, fiction changed my brain.

This has been on my mind lately because there’s a number of things I’m trying to accomplish this way, a bit at a time, every day: music to learn, CDs to rip for my iPod, photos to sort and label. Whenever I decide to do something a teeny bit at a time, to chip away rather than power through, I think of that story, and all the other ones in that book. And even though I now know better than to believe everything I read, I still believe, deep down, that I can flatten that mountain.

Anyone else out there remember the books of childhood that shaped your worldview?

Wow, tough call. DeLuca’s dream. Kelly Robson’s vision of the future (which we share). Taint of Dorkdom.

But it’s gotta be someone, and this week’s winner is: Livia Llewellyn, for building a bridge between the genre definition of “fantasy” and the rest of the world’s definition of “fantasy.” And for making us laugh, even while making a serious point. Livia, we raise our glass to you — and soon you can raise yours back! Check your email.

Footsure

It’s too late to bind my feet and unbound
They’ll never slide
Into those glass slippers you hold
So hopefully
No and it’s just as well
My toenail is ingrown enough already from
The usual sorts of confinements and my stride
Which is slightly turned duck-footed
No mincing sway-hipped walker I
Step out swinging till the nail grows in
And in and carves my flesh like walking
On knives sharp pain in every step.

You pocket the slippers with a sly smile
Saying not the little cinder girl then but
The other sort
A little mermaid fish out of water
Paying the price for her legs.

No there’s almost nothing little about me and besides
There’s a surgery for my toe but for a tail?
Only sorcery and the sea hag’s bargain a trade
Of diminishment for love – of God I guess
Or else a man who won’t love
You back a soul is much more useful but
What a choice! I think it better to keep
What’s mine my voice.

Is that a flash of crimson
I see in your coat pocket? What
Will you offer me next?
Let me guess – dancing shoes red
Silk or leather or red-hot iron?
Leave them there you wolf you
Jackal you charmer I
Don’t want any part of it.

Really you should quit these hobbling tricks and stay
Away from my feet entirely
Didn’t anyone warn you?
I kick.

Can I have some of your stuff?