Veronica Mars Fangirlishness

So I finished watching Veronica Mars. Three non-spoiler questions:
(1) Why did the series get cancelled -- anyone know?
(2) Any indication about where they were headed with the various plots and characters?
(3) Any opinions about what would have happened next?

In contrast, I just finished reading V for Vendetta and I'm currently working on reading "The Darkness that Comes Before" by Scott Bakker. Heavy, philosophical epic fantasy. Mm-mm-mmm.

Bookish decisions

And the other question... what do I read next?
-keep reading Bakker's epic fantasy trilogy
-pick up where I left off in the Kushiel series
-pick up where I left off in the Merry Gentry series
-pick up where I left off in the Chrestomanci series (that's by Diana Wynne Jones, who wrote Howl's Moving Castle)
-pick up where I left off in the Spiderwick series
-pick up where I left off in the Takeshi Kovacs series (by Richard Morgan)
-read Morgan's other recent novel, Black Man/Thirteen
-read what there is of Diane Duane's The Big Meow online
-start reading Pullman's Golden Compass trilogy
-other

I decided today that while I have lots that needs doing before the school term starts, one of my key tasks is to enjoy myself. In this case that means reading whatever I can snag at the library.

Poetry's got back

Poetry is expression. Poetry is raw emotion as expressed by words. It may be explicit or implicit, naked or hidden, but the expression is pure.

Once, I expressed myself so often that the muse would take me randomly, unexpectedly, and have her way with me. I'd be helpless to do anything but grab a pen and paper and scribble furiously until she left me, her seed spilled all over the paper.

Language kept me sane. When I needed release, I expressed myself with words. In metaphor and analogy, in plain, blunt words and in fictional verses that paralleled my feeling but not my reality. And when I needed escape, I read stories of far off lands that gripped me with import so urgent that my troubles fell away.

But, the more fool I, I left all that behind. With fears of technique, with attempts to learn new tools, poetry became a skill, a vocation, rather than a way to bleed out my deadly humours before they festered and choked me. I set aside my books because they distracted me from what had to be done, and in so doing lost a retreat I didn't realize I'd had.

At Kaleidoscope this year, I curled up at the feet of a kindred soul, an artist, poet, musician, and teacher. He created for us a haven to write and share poetry without being judged. And for a short while, the floodgates opened. I wrote, I cried, sweated, and bled into words, onto paper.

Gods, it was good. Gods, it felt good. Gods, I'd love to do it again.

welcomingsong was there and expressed a willingness to do it again sometime. Anyone else interested?
Here's what I'm imagining:
-no regular meeting time -- we meet when it is convenient for us
-we meet somewhere in Toronto, TTC accessible
-we each bring an exercise on a slip of paper, and we pick them out of a hat until we're tired for the night
-we are encouraged but not expected or pressured to read what we've written
-The space MUST be non-judgemental. This is not a space for workshop-ing a piece, for getting constructive criticism. This is a place for safe self-expression.
-not sure if there should be a cap on attendees -- we could always split into groups for reading our stuff, or something like that

Any takers? I'm figuring if nothing else we could meet in early September.