Today was fabulous. Julie and I got up early (early for vacationers) and went to Unadilla, by way of Hell. Some things we learned: the road to Hell is poorly paved but aptly named: Darwin Road, where I almost hit the same squirrel twice, both coming and going. Unadilla and Hell both are less than one stoplight towns. And all of this magic and wonder--less than an hour from my home.
Oooh, there's an Elgin Crosswind driving by right now. Not as cool as the Vactuar 2000 (which could suck bodies out of the sewer system if it had to), but loud and suctiony all the same.
I haven't been blogging my idiocies, for the very good reason that I'm not tactful and I don't want to burn bridges (because I, like many people, do not immediately notice that I am the one being the idiot).
At Birdoswald on Hadrian's Wall, I got out of the car and said, "I smell pine." And sure enough, we climbed the rise and could look out to a huge tract of pine forest, up on the Scottish border and miles to the north.
Brushed my teeth after lunch for four and a half minutes because I am paranoid about spitting in front of strangers. Willing stupid woman out of the bathroom was not working. Must get over self-consciousness. People who fuss with their hair that much to that little effect deserve to see my tooth-scrubbing spit, anyway.
"Galleys" is still a magical word.
In high school, on days when the literary magazine met, I used to wear a white dress shirt with sleeves that could be rolled and buttoned up, and gray pants. Why? Because that's what I felt editors wore.
I need a writer outfit for days when galleys visit. Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, writers don't have special outfits. Hm.
merriehaskell: How do you curse in Latin?
dsudis: In the vocative, I think.
But let's face it, the problem with living with non-writers is that they don't realize how the process works. That yes, you-the-writer are allowed to get up, leave the quiet area, initiate conversation, rant, wring hands, call someone on the phone, eat snacks, dramatically beat the keyboard, demand that anyone around illustrate some fine point of wrestling, knife-fighting or kissing (depending on appropriateness), beg for help on word-choice and discard all their suggestions as too banal, and otherwise be an apparently interactive (and yet irritating) member of society/the family while writing. Because, in-between, you're dashing back to the computer and typing furiously, headphones on and head down and not talking to anyone. It might not look like working, but it is; that's how it is when I'm writing fast. That's a 10k day, right there.
I feel like I just ate the tastiest chocolate croissant in the world. Only, it fed my brain.
(merriehaskell does not have a "party" or "birthday" icon. merriehaskell hopes that angry Saxons from the Bayeux tapestry will suffice. merriehaskell is not sure if they are angry Normans or angry Saxons, actually, and tends to think Normans, since they are attacking from the right, and right is east, and we all know that people invade England from the south-east, which is why just flipping the film around for King Arthur would work.)
They say that you have to write a million words of crap before you can begin to write the really good stuff.
All I can say is, it must have been much harder to extrude those first million words before word processors.
ETA, at 16:49: astrogibs's million words of crap generator will sure come in handy!
It was extremely foggy by the time I left work... so much so that helaaspindakaas (feeling slightly punchy from working hard all day, I think) said (looking at the fog-lined road lit only by streetlamps): "This is the part in the film noir where one of us would get killed and the other one would have to investigate the murder."
I have actually applied the stupid skillset of being a middle manager to my life.
One reason that I don't participate in the conceit of The Muse is that I would feel guilty for all the thoughts of assault and battery I'd have towards an anthropomorphized whatever-that-thing-is-that-makes-me-wri
This is my third attempt of the day to sit down and get words out. My first free weekend day in some time, and it's like the freedom is mocking me. I mock you right back, Freedom! In the absence of a Muse to assault, I will mock even more abstract concepts as though they care! Take that!
Note to self: "disease" is actually *not* a synonym for "unease"
...if the Ash books don't eat me, the cats might. I went to serve Their Lordships the Monday Soft Food, and rattled the plates and everything before discovering there wasn't a can of the stuff in the house. Now they've gone feral and have turned on each other. I am afraid I might be next.
Mer: (typing sleepily) Dann, how do you spell "career"?
Dann: (busily playing GameBoy and listening to a baseball game) K-O-R-E-A
Mer: (blank stare)
Dann: Oh. I thought you meant the country.
Mer: And I thought you were messing with me.
Mer: Never mind. I've already looked it up.
Book appears to be fraught with misery one moment, and packed to the gills with delusions of grandeur the next. I witnessed the book singing, "I'm so pretty! Oh, so pretty!" just this morning. Last night, the book was out until midnight (on a school night!), binge-drinking with some boys I don't even know. The book came home, only to throw up and moan, "I'm being written by a hack! A hack, I tell you!" into the toilet bowl.
Sunday. Strawberries. Lunch on the deck. Havarti. Yay, cheese. Elephant garlic (roasted). Cranio-sacral therapy? Again, thank you. Drive to Gun Lake. Long drive. Cookout. Swimming. Fireworks. Husband good. Stepdaughter slightly singed (sparklers incident). Sleep.
On Sunday, I got a fortune cookie at dim sum that read:
Use your instincts now.
I ducked, but nothing came of it.
The stories I least want critiqued are the ones that need critiquing most.
Dann just came in to ask if I wanted to watch some more tv today (and I really should say no, but I'm not gonna), to which I responded, "In two shakes of a lamb's tail." And he went off grumbling about how he doesn't have any lambs, so how long is that?
"Love will make the whole wall a gate to procure its own escape." Thomas Fuller, 1662
The deal was, I wasn't ever supposed to feel tired when I got up at 8:30AM. I am tired, though.
That's about all I can stand for now...