Yesterday was a heavy day--28,000 words of stories to crit. I'm not happy with some of these results and uncertain I've helped those particular authors.

Being able to read intent makes such a difference because then you can tell what the author tried to do and, perhaps, find a way to show him/her what he or she needs to amp up.

Color me tired and uncertain.

I've spent another almost four hours on research, trying, trying, trying to find a story I could tell about this science idea. I've got the germ of one. Maybe. My first one went into the trash where all bad ideas go, even if the pun in the title amused me.

I also have more facts about drugs for glaucoma and contraindications and worse yet, I can spell all these drug names, which is far more than anyone other than a drug sales rep should be able to do.

Okay, an opthamologist would know this stuff. But geez.

I have today and tomorrow to think of one and write the damn thing.

Anyone know of an idea flea market?

Mostly, I'm having difficulty with how to turn a hard SFnal idea into a real story. All these facts are obviously related to beavers, for they're busy gnawing trees down and building a dam in my idea river. It's a very non-intuitive process, and I hates it.

On a more celebratory note...

Happy Birthday, Charlie!

Unlike Pen, I will not inquire too closely as what exactly it is you have in your pants because we all know you're not wearing any.

May you have many more years of successful writing, oh Pantsless One, and may all your birthday wishes come true.

(Forget the "many happy returns" part, okay? I have never figured out why people would want to spend their birthday in long lines at a mall returning stuff. Talk about instant aging....)

After much digging through my subconscious, I found a plot and managed to get two scenes written out of seven.

Whether it's a good plot is debatable, although I like my protag, which is always a good sign. More writing--a lot more writing!--today because I signed up to turn in a story tomorrow morning. If you hear screaming, ignore it. It's bound to be me, tearing my hair out in clumps.

I love the title, although it's rather prosaic: Going Blind. But there's a number of possibilities to infer through that, and I hope I'm going to hit a few nuances of it with these characters. It's a very different way of generating a story for me: start with a snippet of technology, find a concept to explore within that snippet, brainstorm a bunch of ways we use blind in phrases (blind alley, blind as a bat, blind spots, blind-sided) and attempt to use two or more of those for my characters on a symbolic level.

I guess I'll find out if this works when I'm done, but I'm feeling pretty confident--as long as I don't think too deeply about what I'm doing. The second I start thinking deeply about an idea, I'm doomed.

Three more crits for today, and bless everyone who turned in shorter fiction today. I was grateful. Hell, I think we all were.

I had another nap yesterday, only waking up for brief bits when a blind line would pop into my head, and I'd scrawl it down. I have to stop doing this, though. I haven't really been out of the house in two days, other than to take pictures of the foam across the street. I have to say I love the foam, especially when it breaks off in chunks and floats down the street or is caught in a tree, and hangs there like the cotton candy version of spanish moss.

Unfortunately, the only thing good about the music is that it's very repetitious and boring.

I googled for the troll under the bridge last night and having seen photos of it, I really want to go see it. I think I'll schedule an outing sometime this weekend or next. It looks as though it accepts Volkswagon offerings, which is a plus from my perspective.

And now to make use of my time. I have a little over an hour left to go, and I think I'll be writing another scene for at least part of that time.

Life is good: I have another story ready.

Mind you, I still have the sense that it's in the nick of time. I've signed up to turn in a story again next week, but it will be on Wednesday, so I'll have less time to get this going.

As for a successful story? Well, it's SFish, rather than SFnal, which frustrates me, but hey. A story is what a story is, right? Write it and move on. Worry about how to market the damn thing later.

But it's a good first draft, I think. We'll see how it gets ripped apart tomorrow.

I was going someplace with this but Gabriel showed up and told me I could blame it on him.

I will.

I didn't even need his permission.

I'm impressed overall with this week's stories, and I'm waiting for the quality to diminish as we progress further and further into the state of exhaustion. I'm wondering about my style a bit. I seem to use scenes more than exposition, and it worries me a tad, based on what I've seen this far.

But hell, as much as I'd like to be able to write like a style-monkey, I don't seem to have that in me. I'm probably missing some very critical gene for it.

On the other hand, Amber has enough style for two or three people, so I think I know where mine went.

I miss some of my other stories. This morning I miss my goth girls. Yesterday, I missed the ashes story. I'm not sure I want to work on those here, because those are near and dear to my heart; I want to finish those and have them work, and this is a time to experiment.

Not that I've experimented much yet.

Unless you count the fact that I've written two stories on demand, and I tried, honestly tried, to write a SFnal story based on an article, only to fail miserably.

Oh, well, that's what I'm here for.

You'd think I could have stayed home to fall flat on my face. I've tripped often enough there.

But no. I have to do this in public. More than once.

I'm obviously a masochist at heart.

I wish there was an idea box on the corner--one of those places where the sign read: Story Ideas-10¢, and just like doughnuts, you could buy a dozen of them.

Heck, they could serve them with coffee.

I had a point here...

Oh. Yes. Basically, I'm in search of an idea. I'd love to try (oh, my gosh, I'm channeling Charlie's British accent this morning. I almost said "have a go at") another science fiction article, make a story out of it attempt, but knowing that I fell flat with this last one, I don't know.

It's not the story that's bad, mind you. It's my ability to come up with characters who want to stay in a SF world. The whole thing became a metaphor for blindness, when my right brain got hold of it and wrestled the idea into a place where it could deal with it.

So, thanks to Jaime, I'm reminding myself that failure is in the very nature of Clarion, and if I'm not satisfied, well then yes, there's this nice brick wall over there, and I'll just bash my head against it some more for my next attempt.

You didn't hear Charlie's accent as I said that, did you?

No?

Damn.

All I need is to hear Charlie's voice in my head reading my words aloud. Let's blame it on a limited intake of caffeine, shall we? Because if that's not the reason, I shall shortly begin to use the accent in real life.

It's fine when you're surrounded with an accent to go with it. Not so fine when there's only one example of it, and you're still channeling the accent, because people take offence if they feel you're mocking them.

::Digs a hole, buries the accent, says a prayer over it, and hopes like hell it's not a member of the undead.::

The parties were in full blast at 11:30, 12:30, whatever time it was that I finished that Connie Willis story, and tried sleeping. At some point, they made a joint attempt at primal scream therapy, and heaven knows what that was about.

Still, the walls are fairly thick on this side of the house, and while I didn't sleep for quite a while, I remind myself that the location here is lovely and very conducive to writing.

There are always negatives. The important thing for me is to get past them as quickly as a I can and not let the negatives become the lens through which you view the world. So yeah, I have this tendency to look on the bright side of things.

I suppose that could be very annoying to someone else.

But I figure if that's the piece of me that annoys someone, I'm going to consider myself lucky. There could be many worse personality flaws.

It's early enough that I can bury my nose in a vat of coffee. I think I'm going in search of an Idea-in-a-Box. Surely there's one somewhere.

If not, then, dagnabit, someone open one. I'll be your first customer.

I slept last night--so well, in fact, that I didn't hear the alarm when it first started playing, and when I did, I was so far gone, I didn't remember what bed I was in and got up as usual.

Only to miss the chair I use as a ladder.

Some scrapes. A couple of bruises, maybe tomorrow. One strained calf that won't be too sore until tomorrow.

I've been dreading this ever since I chose the room with the bed four feet above the ground. It was only a matter of time. So now, I can stop worrying.

Yesterday's crit session on my story went well, with no consensus. I like having no consensus, actually. Some people got the emotional blindness, some people didn't, and the ones who didn't were caught up in hating the characters and wanting to club them into sensibility.

I think I should fix that part, probably. ;)

But I got very good feedback on what to look at when I do my second time through, and I'm quite happy about that, even though I failed at the task I'd set myself.

Still, a story is a story.

The day was pretty quiet--most of the frat people must have gone to see the fireworks elsewhere, so no boomboxes. Yay!

Today? Westercon. I'm looking forward to it, actually. There are a couple of panels that sound good, and heck, Connie Willis is there. I love Connie Willis.

Hmm. And we're supposed to be leaving about...

...now.

::Poof!::

It was busy yesterday. Charlie and I headed over to Westercon at 8:30, checked in, had something to eat, and then hit the panels.

I really appreciated the small press one; I learned a lot, and that one panel was worth the price of a day admission for me.

I liked the stories at the Clarion panel, which gave me a sense of the history of Clarion. I knew about the bonding among your Clarion group, but it was something to see how many people showed up, how many people work to keep this program running, and I have a much wider appreciation for people I hadn't seen who play a big role in the functioning of this program year after year.

It's very impressive.

I had a very nice conversation with Connie Willis at the party, got my picture taken with Gardner, (he has leering down to a very fine art, btw, although I didn't appreciate that ability quite as much until I saw him posing for the picture that followed mine), and enjoyed the Clarion party a lot. I did hit the Tor party briefly, but I was far more comfortable with the Clarion people and had some great conversations there, although it was a shock to find that people I don't know really do read my blog and mention the fact.

We dragged ourselves home a bit after midnight, giving Kathy a ride to her hotel and a final goodbye on the way.

So, wonderful day overall, and I'm quite glad I went.

Heck, I even got a story idea out of it, which is what I'm working on today. All day.

With time out for a few crits.

And maybe a walk.

Oh! And a phonecall home.

Of course, the story premise is silly, which is a bit worrisome, but it's a nice break from the more serious stuff I worked on last week. I figure, however, that if I get enough coffee in me that I can, I hope!, get the plot nailed, the POV character selected (hmm... alien or human?), and start writing.

I'm tending toward the alien, which may be a bit harder to write, but seems to hold more potential for humor. I've nixed doing the entire thing in dialogue already because Terry Bisson did that and my last all-dialogue story, although funny, and apparently, funny as hell, didn't sell.

There's just not a market for zombie unicorn stories.

Unfortunately.

And there's no way to make that one work any other way. I wrote myself into a corner with no way out.

Everyone cross their fingers that I don't do that with this one. You all have to do it, because I'm going to be typing.

I hope.

Another day, another story beginning.

Well, thank God, is all I can say.

On the other hand, thinking like an alien is not easy, and the words poured onto the page as if they were dark molasses. (I can't speak to light molasses; I only buy dark for my baking), with short periods of dollops of words more related to cold oatmeal than anything else.

However, encouraged by Charlie (Finlay, this time, although I'm still hearing Charlie's voice in my head... ::pushes it to the other side where it can live with my Spanish accent::) who told me to "Just pretend you're a guy in a convent, trying to understand the nuns. That ought to do it.", I slog on.

Guys are aliens?

Who knew? (Everyone except me? Well, thanks, people. Cath and Jaime, I expect you to keep me abreast of these scientific developments.)

We met Liz Hand last night, and this week looks to be busy, since she did mention an exercise.

Note to self: An exercise does not equal story. Quit worrying. (Damn, maybe I would pay better attention if I said it in Charlie's voice.)

However, so far Liz is dodging the poker game. I'm sure Jacob will use his powers for good.

Not.

Should be fun to watch. And here I thought the fireworks were all over.

In other news, I met someone at the Clarion party who not only had a rubber chicken hanging out of his pocket, he had a rubber chicken story.

::Watches Cath's trembling with interest::

And no, Cath, I'm not taking that story back. It's all yours. But apparently rubber chickens of all sizes can be purchased in Seattle. I liked the key chain, actually. Rather hard to lose, and my gosh, who's going to pick it up and run with it?

"Thief! Thief! Stop that man with the rubber chicken!"

I rest my case.

Finished the blasted thing, not a moment too soon. I hated it by the end.

Hate in 1800 words--that's impressive. Usually I have to write 6000-7000K to get anywhere close to that emotion.

It's not so bad this morning. It reads funnier to me, but I think I have to up the level of absurdities and misconceptions.

Not a damn thing I can do about the freshness, however, and that sucks. I can't put my finger quite on where this has been done before, but there's a cloud of lingering doubt hanging over my head, making sure to drip down my neck.

You gotta hate that.

And why don't they have a "What to Name the Alien" book?! I'm sure someone could make money on that one.

Charliewithouttheaccent used his OED trick with me: tell him a page number; give him a beginning letter. Unfortunately, the page number I gave him was ten, and there just aren't that many f words in the OED that are ten letters long.

Once I figured that out, I cut back to six or seven, with the result that my alien is actually named.

For the moment.

(Yes, I'll be reading the OED later, why do you ask? ;)

Somehow I missed the fact that we were supposed to read four stories this morning, until, thank heaven, Jacob alerted me to the fact. Luckily I had enough time to read and crit Alex's. But I hate not giving a story the time I think it requires, and this was definitely a hurry-up job.

As for today's schedule: three crits, a reading, a quick scan of my story to turn in tomorrow in an effort to find what I can fix, and death through napping.

I don't know why those frat boys were playing loud music at godknowswhattimeintheweehours, but I think they should have a time out period in a nice, quiet cell.

I swear I'm going to off one. Maybe even in this story...

It's enough to drive a relatively sane person to mass murder. (And why is it that you never see headlines like "Frat Boy Murders on Rise"? Works for me as a premise.)

Net word count: 0, but I did tighten and expand the various sections and scenes, so yes, word was accomplished.

I start the next story tonight--it's an idea that I had floating around and the first two scenes written, but I think since it requires quite a bit of worldbuilding, it's a good one for China's week.

Besides, it's time for me to write another fantasy, I think.

Sleep happened yesterday. It wasn't supposed to, but it did. Three hours gone in a snap, which meant I was critting this morning.

Liz's reading last night went well; she read from a novel that is coming out in a year, and since the segment she read was set in England, we got to hear her various accents.

I'm not the only one who channels voices in her head, apparently.

Charliewiththeaccent taught me the single most important sound to recreate an English accent--the o sound. Not the short o sound, we Americans are so fond of, but a sound that you form in the front of your mouth rather than in the back.

I'm working on it.

Eeep! Out of time. I'm off to class.

I don't quite know what I did right, but I'm ready a bit earlier this morning. It wasn't because I caught up on my sleep, either. I stupidly had a half cup of coffee after dinner, and that was enough to keep me awake for quite a while, even after I'd turned out the lights. I can't even blame noise. There wasn't any.

I'm already working on the next story. I don't have the plot completely fleshed out, but I know what happens to my protag on his exterior and internal journey, and I know what metaphor this story is supposed to express.

Of course, there's always the question of whether or not I can actually do it. I offer up my blindness story as proof, where a little less than half the people in class picked up on the metaphor.

So here I go, trying again.

Damn it's hard getting stories to resound.

So last night, I gathered setting info. This story is for China's week, and one of the things I so admire about his writing is his worldbuilding and setting, that I'm going to embarrass the hell out of myself by making an attempt.

Seeing that I don't have the time I'd need to build this story up, and how much time it took me to get my moon story nailed with that gypsy culture, I know I'm going to fail.

Oh, well. Move on.

I'm getting to the point where three weeks is starting to feel like forever. I'm hoping that I don't crash in week four; heck, I'm hoping I don't crash in week five or six, but I'm not holding my breath. For one thing, I'm not pretty in beet red and that ugly bluish-purple shade isn't any better.

Gabriel freaked me out yesterday by reading my story in front of me and never laughing.

Thankfully, Charliewiththeaccent came down later and teased me about where I'd gotten the idea, and she admitted to laughing. This is very good, actually, for I don't laugh when I'm writing funny stuff. I think it's funny; I have a pretty good sense of timing, and I know when I need to make those one-liners stand alone for emphasis.

But I don't laugh. I don't even snicker.

And I have no idea whether people will find something I've written amusing or not until someone reads it and tells me it's funny for certain.

At least this story came out quickly. It's really bad when you hate a supposed- to-be-funny story. I can't even intellectualize the humor then.

Lucky me. I have time for another cup of coffee. It's a slow morning, and while people are up, I'm not seeing them. I can't believe it's Thursday already. Where did this week go?

End of week three, and my takeaway at this point is that our pros are completely darn nice people, and damned eager to nurture writers along their way.

I don't know why I pull up short with that. Truth is, I've only known extremely nice people so far, in any field, but somehow there's this amazement that pros will take the time to stop and point the way. I've experienced this on so many levels since my first con, that you'd think I'd be blasé about this by now, but mostly I'm damned grateful and impressed.

I sure hope I reach the stage where I can share what I know. Some day, say when I make pro.

Not that I'm ever going to feel proficient at what I do. The best I hope for is for getting my writing there. Eventually. And if it takes a bazillion rewrites, so be it.

My critique session went well, with some people getting the objects, others not, and others still wanting more. It was good to get feedback since I never know if I really truly am hitting the right amount of humor or missing completely.

Did I have a point to this tale? Oh, no. Just a silly moment that I wanted to flesh out, and that was it, but I can see that upping the significance of Glaik's mission and his rising frustration would capture more the flavor of what I'd tried to do. And of course, I like Jacob's suggestions of the car scene needing bird poop--how many people ever get called on that one?!--and the suggestion of having Glaik imitate a porta-potty in a construction site. I just don't know where my mind was. Obviously, I've been away from Boy Scout humor for far too long.

(Although, I don't think I'll be using the suggestion that Glaik morph into a vibrator, sad to say. You'll just have to imagine this alien's shock at entering a human, rather than the other way around. ::And the room groans.:: Too bad. Sorry.)

I'm thinking over Liz's comments about me looking into YA. As much as I'd prefer not to write YA, (dagnabit, that's my day job), I may very well have the knack for hitting the right tone. Lord knows I've read enough children's literature aloud to know what the heck works and what doesn't. There's also no stigma that I can see about moving back and forth between YA genre and adult genre--unlike the stigma that seems to lurk over us if we want to write genre and literary stories.

I'm letting it sink in, along with another suggestion she made.

And I really liked her suggestion of looking at fairytales for the possibility of plot structure, then attempting to set them in another very different place--which is what I did with After Ever After, and what I've got in the back of my mind for my next novel.

Scary that.

My next novel.

Like it's a given.

We're bonding this week--I'm grateful to see it. Last night over half of us were hanging out together in the dining room, even though not everyone was playing poker. I guess we've gotten comfortable enough, that we're spreading out and making this place ours.

I did take two of the three scenes I have for my next story and clean them up a bit, to the point that they're, usable. Few new words, I'm afraid, but it's a start, and I have the weekend to accomplish a heck of a lot more. The plotting is generally set in my head, but I have work to do on the middle and end still in order to write those particular scenes.

In other news, the plague has spread with two varieties making the rounds. I'm making sure to take my vitamins, stay up on my sleep, and try to pace myself, so the stress doesn't get to me. More than anything, I'd say it's the stress that wipes me out, and I'd prefer my time here at Clarion not follow a traditional story arc where the tension builds and builds until I explode, the end.

Maybe that's just me and my age showing. But I don't enjoy stress, nor do I enjoy my physical response to it as I've gotten older. So, two reasons to avoid it.

Nor am I into whips, as I announced to the room yesterday when I critted Daniel's story. And stress, for me, is just another whip. The only difference is that it's a whip you use on yourself rather than others.

(And for those of you who know my desire to be eviler than I am, I know that comes as a blow, but hey, think of me with that cat o' nine tails right this second.)

Oh.

::Blush::

Or, um... not.

:P

Monkeyshines!

Hannah, the lovely, lovely person that she is, sent us a banana care package filled with monkeys.

Who could ask for anything more?

At the moment, they're living in the dining room, and we've discovered that the chairs are magnetic, and that they like knives, and that if you're really good, you might be able to keep them spinning in the air like those spinning plates.

Unfortunately, I'm not really good. Heck, no one is.

Right now, the monkeys are airsurfing, with a knife playing the surfboard.

No writing yesterday. I meant to. I want to. But somehow? I can't bring myself to start typing, even though I know the next scene. That stops today, though. I simply don't have enough time to waste a day with very little to do (other than hitting Costco again) with nothing to show for it by the end.

Maybe doing some laundry would help, because the music I've tried with the middle Eastern rhythms isn't.

Maybe week four is all about rebound and how you have to push yourself to keep cranking the prose.

(Okay, so I'm the Model T, and my engine is not turning over no matter how hard I try.

Put that crank down!

Please?

::Shoves Kim to the front.::

I understand that if you wind her up, she goes.)

We're having some fun reading Eye of Argon aloud. I used to enjoy that a lot more until I started reading slush. Somehow, my sense of humor has been blunted.

Who knew that slush was a lethal weapon?

I am not getting sick. I am not getting sick. My lungs feel tight like I have bronchitis, but I am not getting sick.

And if I do, it's all Kim's fault for making me feel guilty that I offered her apple juice, which was the right color, when she wanted chicken soup.

There. I feel better.

It's a very good morning--we've just finished tormenting Charliewithanaccent, who, poor thing, due to her general stuffy head and having to blow her brains out on a regular basis, managed to confuse Not-a-China with the real thing.

Of course, all bald men with earrings look the same while bending over.

Well, except Carl, 1. because he has no earrings, and 2. because his head isn't shaved close enough. However, I appreciate the wave of solidarity with his haircut.

I have word count and one more scene. While it appears that I'm actually using a piece of modern technology to express myself, in actuality, I'm chiseling words onto a marble block. If you listen closely as you pass, you can hear the chink, chink, chink of my fingers clawing stone.

Gosh, I hate that. It's hell on the manicure, too.

In other news, we attempted a round of Mafia last night but Galaxy Quest was on in the living room, and by the time Gabriel found the cards for us to choose, the rest of the room was hooked.

Voilá! No Mafia.

We may be the only non-Mafia Clarion class. Nancy would be pleased.

It's Week Four. I've got a minor case of pushback going here; it takes a lot to convince myself to work, let alone write, and I know it's bad when I prefer to clean something (in this case, my room and the laundry). I didn't completely finish the room, so there's hope, and I'm considering rewarding myself with an early afternoon trip to find the Troll Under the Bridge if I write.

I'm all about rewards.

Breakfast was a real treat this morning, for Robin made oodles of french toast, and I'm on for dinner tonight with Kim and Daniel.

Kim, the rat, stole my laptop and used it to blog and then to play solitaire. I'm calling her Kim in every sentence now, hoping to pervert those people who give in to her whims and refer to her as 'Tempest'. Revenge is mine saith the mom. I'm also taking suggestions for her middle name because everyone knows you're not in real trouble until your mom uses both your names. You know where to find me should you have a lovely one.

The monkeys are a big hit, and now I must find these critters for myself. I know several people who would love them (namely my children). I wish they had rubber chickens for Cath, but I suppose it's not easy to get rubber chickens to spread their wings.

Drat.

People are getting darned sassy around here, complaining that my blog entries are getting later and later.

You try writing final notes on crits first thing in the morning before bloggings--which for some reason sent me off to floggings and then to Daniel's whips story...

Man, that was a quick slide into dirt and filth. I'm blaming...um... anyone else.

Kim. It's all Kim's fault.

I eked out a few new words. China appeared last night and gave us some of his thoughts on fiction, and then I went back and rewrote the damn story images searching for linguistic clichés, where I discovered I had more than my fair share, and perhaps enough for two writers.

Tired phrasings sold here 10/$1.

Want 'em? Get in line. Pay no attention to the sixteen other booths around us.

It's raining. I'm thrilled.

But it's time to print out these notes of mine and run off.

Oh! But I found the troll under the bridge and used Carl as a size comparison in the photos. He obligingly climbed to the top of the troll's head and posed for me.

I knew I wasn't going to do it!

Lovely, lovely troll. And now I really do want to write my troll under the bridge story. Not that the boogyman was a troll there, but yes. I want to write it.

And now, off to print!

Far less sleep than usual. I spent the entire day, darn near, working on this story, and I'm now reduced to talking heads with hand puppet gestures.

Good thing this is a fantasy. Science fiction is so hard to write convincingly with sock puppets.

I did have chats with Cath (having her ask me questions helped me nail back history and cultural bits down), Amber (who helped me with the story structure) and Charliewithouttheaccent, who, when I told him China's bit of advice that resonated so strongly within me, said, "I knew that!"

Unfortunately, he was too far away to smack. I'll have to make that one up at TorCon.

And he didn't have a good answer for why he'd never mentioned it to me before, because apparently I fall into lazy linguistic usage all the time.

I guess I know who my real friends are now.

:P

This story is not finished. I have 24 hours left, and I'm terrified it's not even going to come close. To do it justice, I need at least to double the word count, and it would take a miracle.

Anyone have a miracle they want to sell cheap?

And why isn't there a saint for missing plots? We've got saints for everything else, darn it, why not that?

Time. My mornings grow shorter and shorter, and it doesn't matter what time I get up.

Tired.

Past tired. I think I'm in the tired-tired range. This story refused to be finished until 3A, and when I went to bed, I couldn't sleep right away, because I'd had some of Claud's lovely coffee. I'm going to have to get him to make it first thing in the morning from now on. The story's done--plot holes abound, the setting disappeared into the black hole where my settings always go when I'm writing to nail dialogue and feelings. Talking heads with hand puppets. That is so me.

But it's dead and done. Long live the next.

Okay, so it can't live long. I have to have it done by next Tuesday, and I have no plot, no germ, nothing.

Celia's link to lost plots in my comments did not help, either.

In other news, Kim has a father (Amazing, seeing how miraculous this birth was in comparison to the others. Much shorter gestation; I highly recommend adoption.)--I'm sure I have that right. I don't think I was too exhausted to imagine Carl saying that. and Gabriel (aka, Gabe, and if he teases or pokes me much more, Ga-eee!) has requested more time in my blog.

So, in an effort to accommodate that request, Blah, blah, blah, Gabe, Blah, blah, blah, Gabe, Blah, blah, blah, Gabe, Blah, blah.

I think next time he may be more specific.

Heh. (But I'll be happy to throw up a photo of his badger chewing on Lenore anytime. We may have to stage death scene.)

Kim has blamed me for everything, except for the few things that Celia has thankfully given her to focus on. And I'm sure the short cut back to the house last night from China's reading would have been short, had she not distracted with me all her whining and complaining.

Eee!

Time to print. Already.

Tired.

Flowers. Ursula Le Guin. Poker.

No idea. No plot. No story.

My little hamster brain is spinning and spinning. Unfortunately, the goddammed wheel doesn't go anywhere. I'm currently working on disconnecting the wheel from its base, and hoping, because the only thing I've got in my head is something Ursula said last night about promiscuous reading, and that's sent me totally off on what 'going to bed with a good book' really means, and since she mentioned favorite authors such as Tolstoy and Dickens, who, I might point out are dead, has given me a rather uncomfortable feeling.

I mean, you try taking a dead stiff to bed.

(Stiff courtesy of Charliewithouttheaccent who was with me the entire way on this one. Not that that's surprising.)

I suppose that means I have absolutely no sense of proportion. I mean, Ursula Le Guin for heaven's sake. (Mind you, it was all her fault. Okay, half her fault. Sort of. Never mind...)

She's a wonderful person, adept at putting awestruck writers at their ease, and I want to be like her when I grow up.

Seriously so.

Okay, so I want to be half Ursula and half my Aunt Martha, who had a phenomenal amount of strength and a hell of a good sense of humor.

My crits today were far kinder than they had any right to be seeing how many plot holes I developed, how many instances I stole cultural bits just to get the damn story written, and how little character development I had time to do.

People horrified me with comments about the high fantasy prose (Me?! Oh, no!); China made me laugh by telling me he'd written Yoda, Yoda, Yoda after several of the places where I'd intentionally messed with the structure. And I've made the decision to lose a few (just a few, though!) semicolons.

Yes, it reads like a first chapter.

But it's not a trilogy! I don't care what you people say! I can only get two novels out of this universe.

Period.

No, you can't quote me on that, either.

So, considering that I was really expecting to get absolutely nailed on this story, because I had completely failed in writing a complete short story, and the arc was off, and I hadn't gotten the internal arc matched with the external arc, and why the hell was he even in that caravan anyway if nothing's going to happen there, it went well.

Courtesy of China, I've got a new word--baf*ckingnanas--and I have to research what the linguistical study that someone did on how every person who sticks f*cking in the middle of a word, breaks that word in exactly the same spot every time.

The asterisks, by the way, are for my mom--if she's reading this, which I doubt, but you never know. She might figure out how to turn on the computer one of these days yet.

My dad's in surgery right now for his knee replacement, and I'm worried. Not so much about the surgery, but about his recovery, and how Mom's going to deal with it. Six to ten weeks and then he probably won't be walking at that point.

And, before I blather all my creative energy away for the day, I'm off to find a story idea.

Okay, another one. I don't care how much that promiscuous reading story begs.

Just when you think you can't possibly get any more exhausted than you are, reality pops up and smacks you with the Sandman.

Apparently, the Sandman is carry more sandbags around with him than he used to--but no, I'm not bitter.

Four more crits and no story. I returned to my mainstay of story generation and fed my brain a whole ton of images. Of catacombs and Mexican mummies and funereal art from a graveyard in Genoa.

Categorization? For me?

I think not.

My meeting with China yesterday went well--we focused the discussion on what I need to work on: developing my voice and losing my second-level literary cliches. I asked him to show me how he works on this, since it's something he's had to focus on, and two examples later, I think I've got a darn good idea of how to approach it.

Shades of Charliewithouttheaccent and my demands to show me, show me, dagnabit!, of how he would do something. I'm grateful that people take time to do just that. Explanations of a technique are one thing, but teaching me to do something for myself are all about showing.

But still no story.

And I have to get a plot. I have to get find it today. I have to have something written by the party tonight and more written before Cath and George get here tomorrow. At least the party tomorrow won't run too late. I hope.

Kim and I have been having a great time throwing the crocheted anenomes around, and I'm about ready to nail a few other people. (Never mind who. Pay no attention to that woman clutching an anenome. Really. Would I hit you? ::Eyelash flutters::)

Of course not.

There is not enough coffee in the world for me this morning. And it's just too bad.

I have the bare bones of a plot.

Not because of anything I did, mind you, but because of Charliewithoutanaccent walking me through a brainstorming process where he kept yelling at me to stop being so obvious.

Well, damn, that's me. Obvious girl. I think it's my use of understating the obvious for a humorous effect that trained me into this habit. I'm not sure how my ability to play straight man plays into that, but since Gabe also pointed out that to me the other day, I'm sure it does.

Anyway. The plot. It's a very quiet story, I'm afraid, about loss. But there's a specfic element, and I'm happy I have something to bash my head on for the next couple of days.

For Steve: the thing that China drilled into my head so well, was that I use secondary literary cliches all the time. We're talking adjective/noun combinations that are obvious. "Tight rein on her emotions" is one he picked out from my Going Blind story. He's mentioned "gossamer wings", "pimply-faced youth", and a host of others. So, now I can identify those and get rid of them. I haven't had a chance to try it yet--this isn't going to be a first draft thing for me, I'm afraid, more like something I'll have to do second draft, because if I watch myself as I write, I'll freeze up on the writing.

I'm not quite codifying the process Charliewithouttheaccent used with me this morning, but I'm making notes on how to do this by myself. Heaven knows I'm not going to be able to have someone by my side every time, all the time.

China's gift-giving went well. It was really cute to see him actually put on that red mohawk wig for all of the five seconds he had it on. It takes a strong man to allow himself to appear foolish--especially when Leslie had camera in hand.

There is so much about this workshop I am going to miss. The instructors have been so nurturing, so intent on what each one of us needs as a writer, and the time to grow and develop, so valuable, that I have this love/hate relationship with the workshop ending.

Of course, I also have that same problem with having to write another story.

Crits? Fine.

Today is going to Pike's Market with Charliewiththeaccent and Kim, provided I can get the woman to actually walk, and the party at the Bear's house that runs from late afternoon to evening. I'm taking a notebook. Just in case the story mugs me.

But writing will happen today, and hot damn, I'm grateful it's Saturday.

I'm partied out for the moment. The get-together at Greg Bear's was lovely-- great food and a wonderful, wonderful lakeside location with dragonflies galore, fish, and lilypads.

Unfortunately, though, I now want his library shelving system. And the books, but mostly the shelves, that slid across the floor as you rotated the handle and took up most of the room, but with such phenomenal effect.

And I want the kitchen of the house from the night before. The stove, in particular, which had a very Wedgewood feel to it, along with the circular chopping board that made such sense.

However, I can't say I have words, because I didn't write anything once I got home, and while I still haven't written anything this morning, it's out of fear and hesitancy.

I don't know the one thing that needs to happen, and I've generated a long list of all the things one can lose, in the hopes of discovering something about loss that I can build upon, but I've lost my mind instead.

I hate it when that happens.

So I'm focusing on symbolism (and oh, my, look at me being so writerly and putting in symbolism! Someone smack me out of my pride.)

China's gone, and Patrick's arrived. I'm sad to see China go, for he's such a sweetheart in many ways, but I'm anxious to see what I learn next. Although, if my stress level with this next story gets much higher, I might implode.

I did splurge on time and money yesterday at Pike's Market with Cath and George and Kim and Charliewiththeaccent. I have this amazing spinning something-- a copper piece of tubing that's been coiled with two glass spheres, one green, one white, that rest on the coils. When it spins, it creates the illusion that the balls slide up or down, and I love it.

It was a twisty day yesterday, for I got something for Alix with twists too.

It was great seeing Cath and George again, and they came a long way for such a short visit.

And now, I can't put it off any longer. I must go write. I've had coffee. I'm awake. There's no excuse.

The crankies are hitting.

It's not me, though, which is unfortunate, because when I'm cranky, I go hide. Of course, when someone else is cranky, I do the same damn thing, so can you tell? Probably not.

But I want to go on record as saying that if you can write seven short stories in six weeks, go you. I'm in awe, and I worship at your feet.

I can't. I don't think I'll ever be able to, and I'm really hoping that I won't have to do six in a six-week period again. Ever.

Some writing yesterday, and this one feels short, so I don't know that I'm even going to break 2K, which means I'm not nearly as paranoid as I was last week. A nap is calling, and I'm thinking about giving in to the impulse, hoping that I'd be more able to write later then. We only have two stories to read and crit for tomorrow, so I'm grateful. Found time.

In other news, there is no other news. I'm to the point where I'd like to find a lakeside shore to sit beside and just exist--with my laptop, of course, since I have that story to finish.

Barring that, I'd settle for surround sound and very soothing music--with my laptop.

Luckily, I asked myself exactly what my protag's worst fear was and got an answer immediately. The story's crystalized for me, and I now know what has to happen for her, although I haven't quite resolved what needs to happen for my other character specifically.

This story, then one more. I'm looking forward to being done with the writing today, which is sad. Week five apparently means that I just smacked against a windshield moving towards me at 75 miles per hour.

I think I need some time off.

Or more coffee.

Or someone to scrape me off that windshield because I'm getting bugs stuck between my teeth.

I have no idea what the date is any longer, although I have managed to keep track of the days of the week. I suppose that's comforting.

It's also a fact of life that word count and number of stories actually written mean more.

I did finish this last short, although I'm wondering if it will mean anything to anyone else other than me. It feels slight with undercurrents of resonance I'm not sure I've earned. I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

Blessings on Amber. I sent her the finished rough draft last night to read, and go me! How often do I write a story that's inaccessible for her? And truly, it's not often that someone feels the need to preface their comments with "I love you." I'm sure that was to soften the blow.

So, basically, it's week five, and I'm writing crap.

I knew that.

But I rewrote the ending last night and this morning, and I hope I've got some meaning spelled out, but heaven knows. I sure as hell don't.

And it's time to start another. I'm tempted to look at my bottle tree story, just because I have a character that has something to say, even if I haven't quite figured out what.

We only had two stories yesterday, so I'm grateful that the number of critiques was reduced. While I wanted to finish this story, I didn't feel as pressured, but that was more a factor of length than anything else.

We discussed The Shirt this morning, and managed, quite well, to handle things in an adult manner--by vote, with some gratuitous voice-raising thrown in. (Oh, that was Patrick, Neile, and Leslie in the debate over whether it was the 20th class of Clarion or the 20th anniversary. Shades of the millennium. Really, you'd think they'd set a better example for us. Wink.)

In the hopes of educating those of you who are thinking about sending a manuscript to Tor, Patrick strongly believes in one space only after a period. I know that there's discussion over this matter (one space or two?) and concern that each of us do 'it', whatever 'it' is, absolutely correctly, there you go. Something tells me, however, that the extra space will not sell your story. Can you see the rejection? "I'm sorry, unfortunately we will not be able to use your novel. We found the gratuitous use of an extra space after every sentence entirely unbelievable and very jarring, and I was never able to get into the story because of that."

Sigh.

I'm considering another nap. I think I need to be mentally prepared for tomorrow and sleep might help.

Well, no. Maybe not. But lying to one's self is always good.

Yay! Crit session is over! It really helped in terms of what I need to emphasize, although, as I told Carl, my classmates are just too nice. No one ripped me apart.

But, sad to say (for Jaime), it's not inaccessible any more. And since I didn't keep the original draft, Jaime, if you want to read it as it was, ask Amber to send you the file I sent her. It's far closer now, and about half the class got where I was going, if not more. I'm far more worried about Patrick's assessment that it could be read as specfic or mainstream.

My meeting with him is in another hour, so I guess I'll find out more then. Mostly I'm glad this was so short, and I want to keep it this length. And the very good thing about this particular story is that I want to go back and rework it today (so I might). This is the first story I've written here that I don't absolutely hate already, even though it was difficult to get out onto paper.

I am looking forward to writing a novel, though. Is that scary or what? I'm soothing myself with the rationalization that as soon as I start it, I'll want to write a short story.

Some things never change, and I'm fictionally fickle.

Thank you, Stephanie, for the encouragement. It's good to know that we'll not only survive, but come out the better for it at the end. I'm grateful for the support! (And it's even better when it's from a Clarion East attendee and someone I've never met, nor even knew was reading this blog!) I appreciate it. (But which Charlie did you want me to wish a happy birthday to? Charliewiththeaccent or Charliewithouttheaccent? Eeeeeeeeeee!!! It was Carl's birthday yesterday! Happy Birthday, Carl!)

I'm going to do some walking this afternoon. Somewhere. Maybe the park. I just need out time--even if it's hot. I'm feeling cooped up but I don't want to go anywhere near stores or the Ave. I need green. Green and spider webs and bark and leaves.

I'm sure I can find that around here somewhere. I mean, this is Washington, right? The blackberries aren't even ripe yet!

Another reject on "Paper Crane", so it's time for more marketmancy. Mind you, based on the number of sales I've had, I don't think I'm good at it. Still, I've got to look it over today, see if there's anything I can change now, and send it out.

In all my image searches, I finally hit upon a pencil drawing that I know has a story behind it, although I'm pretty much in the stages of who and what. I want to get that nailed down tonight, so I can write--maybe not tonight, seeing that Patrick has a version of Mafia scheduled for those who want to play. But yay! I physically relaxed the second I saw it, which I find amusing and amazing simultaneously. This is very much a "Hearts of Ice" moment when all I had was a commercial visual of someone carving a woman (or was it a man?) out of ice and watching it come to life.

I've read two out of the three stories for tomorrow already, and I'm feeling smug about that, although I haven't typed up my notes yet, and, since I overslept this morning by two hours!, I think those will get typed up before dinner rather than tomorrow morning.

I haven't had much family news--it helps having boys away for the summer who don't call, never write, and for all you know, they could be dead, but someone forgot to inform you. However, the dead rise, and David has come up with a new scheme, (which I have to admit, is far better than the 'I can't work any longer for the Boy Scouts climbing program here because they want me to wear socks, can you believe their nerve?' last scheme.) Today he wants to attend a community college in Maryland, that begins in three weeks, and enroll in the Adventure Sports program. Sounds good, doesn't it?

I'm sure the "oh, by the way, I want you to buy me the car, I'll pay for the classes, and gee, they don't have student housing" shouldn't worry me at all.

This is me not worrying.

What?! You can't tell?

Damn.

I swear I am writing a story about an alien child who causes his parents absolute fits.

What do you mean that's not fiction?

Sigh.

You people are just no fun.

Miracles abound, also. I won at poker last night. I believe it was the wine, in combination with the fact that I sat beside Gabe and got all the cards he should have gotten. I plan to repeat this technique next week.

And now, poof!

Off to work. Go me!

So the best writing advice quote I've gotten this week came from Eileen Gunn last night, and she quoted Bill Gibson: "You must learn to overcome your very natural and appropriate revulsion for your own work."

Okay, so I'm working on it. In the midst of the story, I hate it. At the end, I hate it. I have brief moments when I think something I've written is well done (or at least as well done as I can make it at that particular skill level) but it's grasping air.

Whoosh, it's gone, and once again I suck.

I'm so glad Eileen suffers from writing doubts, and that she's even a slower writer than I am. I'm not alone.

Whether or not that will comfort me two weeks from now when I'm bashing my head against a novel again, I don't know.

She also gave me another of Bill's quotes: "Interrogate the text." This is something to apply when you're in the midst of the story and the damn thing isn't jelling. Our minds want to create plot. Given three unrelated objects, people, or actions, we will naturally make links between them, and many times those germs can be found in your text. All you have to do is go back and read.

This rang true for me, although I've never found them in an unfinished story. I've only seen that they're in there after the fact, and I'm always impressed with myself when I find them. (Of course, that lasts approximately thirty seconds, and then I find something that makes me hate the story. See paragraph two.)

Finding them before I've finished the story?

Heh. There is none so blind as me when I stare at my own prose.

In terms of plotting, my story is coming along--I have the gist of a plot, and I'm about ready to start writing that first scene and see where it goes. I'll interrogate the prose. But I'll have to get Gabe to train the light on it, Kim to play the good cop, and someone else--Claud? Alex?--to smoke for me.

I'm over the hurdle, whatever hurdle it was that I smacked into when I suddenly felt I couldn't write, this workshop would never end, and what the hell did I think I was doing posing as a writer?

Now I'm looking back thinking I can write, sometimes, the workshop is going to end next week, and oh, my god, I'll have to jump right back into work, and, okay, I'm a writer--a writer-in-process.

I think I'm always going to be a writer-in-process--always pushing on, always trying to learn more, trying to write me, trying to share what I know, whether intelligently, emotionally, or comedically.

One more week finished. Patrick and Teresa are gone most of today and leave Seattle tomorrow. I had the privilege of watching Teresa in action as an editor, using Daniel's newest story. It was an intriguing experience, even though it wasn't happening to me. I liked hearing her talk about her decisions and she's made me extremely grateful that I will get ripped to shreds by Chip Delaney.

Yes, I'm looking forward to it! I came here hoping to learn some of the things I need to take the next step, so I am going to be grateful.

I wonder if he minds drooling.

Real life is intruding on my little paradise of the writing life:

A phone call from my eldest, hoping to garner support for his notion that moving across country, buying a car, finding a roommate and a place to stay, and getting the classes that he wants, but oh, he only has three days off between then and now, and yes, this can work. An email from a good friend re: his spouse, who is not doing well, so now I'm worried as all heck about her and her weight, or lack thereof, seeing that she didn't weigh all that much to begin with. The weight of having to write a story seems to pale by comparison.

Have I ever mentioned I'm damned lucky?

Well, I am. And as much as I may complain about hard writing is, or how much of a pain all my darlings are, there is no comparison. I've had a phenomenally easy life in many ways.

For the moment, however, I'm trying to get a fix on this obnoxious talking crow who suddenly decided to speak, and now I'm reining him in, because he is not to get any more importance as a character, other than as a mild dose of comic relief. My dread is that if I "interrogate the text", I'm going to find he plays a much larger part.

The frat boys across the street decided to have a party last night that went on for some time. My fan noise didn't diminish the sounds of "Paint It Black" blaring, but that's the last song I remember. I think they were playing it over and over again. So, I'm up late, and here it is 10:30A, and I have yet to write or read. I'm reading and critting today, so that I feel as though I'm one step ahead--even if it's not actually true.

I also have to call my folks and make sure that Mom is in one piece now that Dad is home. Dad is not the... um... ahem, most patient patient, and now that he's home, he has no nurses to interrogate for amusement. (Dad is quite good at finding those six degrees of separation in strangers he meets. Give him five minutes, and he'll find a link.)

And, since I seem to be flea-jumping this morning (free association, go with it!), I have to admit, I love my witches. Love them. Love their personalities. Love their teacups. I love the opening of the opening scene, although it is too long, and I seem to be taking my time to get to the point, dammit!

The best part of stories beside the ends?

The beginnings. The part where I'm always in love with the characters and their situation.

This explains my fickleness, doesn't it? Another glossy bit shining over there, and just like a magpie, I'm off to snatch it up and develop it.

The best thing about Clarion for me? I can drag myself to the end of a story and finish the damn thing no matter how much I hate it by the end. I have not had to abandon a single one while I've been here.

Yay, Clarion!

Five hundred words and a movie and a very nice dinner out. I'd say the day was more or less successful.

We heard Chip's arrival last night with Leslie, but I don't expect to meet him officially until after this afternoon.

Condemned by my own words--Chip just walked in, and we're having a get-to-know-each-other discussion. He's a delightful man, and I hope he rips me to shreds. Period.

I am definitely going to enjoy this week.

Chip's already said that he can be nice to everyone except one person--himself. I can identify with that. The only notes I've made about all my stories has been what I need to improve upon. Forget the nice stuff. I'm glad to know I'm getting something right, but, in the long run, what's going to make me the better writer?

The bad news. Every time.

And my time here is telescoping.

I'll be glad to go. I have no need to repeat this workshop experience--although I've learned that I am tough enough for on-going face-to-face crits. I figure I can handle negative reviews for sure at some point in the future. (Look at me getting cocky--one positive review under my belt, and it's gone to my head.) But readers are going to miss the point at times, people aren't going to get what you're attempting to do, and while that can be the fault of the reader, I think there's an equal likelihood that it might be something I've done, or not done, as a writer.

Lots to think about this morning: Chip is a sweetheart. I have to find my watch. I have to chisel out this next scene. I have to crit four stories, and Kim and Michael need to go to the mall. Octavia comes at 4P for our not-such-a-surprise surprise guest author. Patrick's told me, just as I requested, that while there's a market for my fantasy story, it basically doesn't stand out, except he said that much more tactfully. And I am ever so grateful to have my gut feelings confirmed.

Meanwhile, I've got this gut feeling about the looseness of my current story and if I'm spending time waving my hands in an effort to distract the reader that I haven't figured out the plot.

Okay, so it's more than just a gut feeling.

But the only way I'm going to discover what this story is about is to finish writing the damn thing.

I can say I love writing. I can also say that I hate the times when it's slow, when the words have to be ripped out of me, when I don't know where I'm going. But I keep coming back, opening whatever story that's giving me grief, plodding on. So, I love it.

But, just like Chip, I can say I'm never satisfied with my work. I strive to improve it constantly. And there's always, always something I can make better. So I do.

Which is very unlike a quilt, where once I've set the last stitches and bound the edges, I can never go back and rip it apart.

For that reason alone, I would love writing.

What I learned from Chip yesterday: Natural vs. dramatic structure.

Natural is the kind of stuff that pours out of us when something extraordinary has happened and we're retelling it to someone else. It's very disjointed, but typically, emotion pours out first, then the recounting of action, and setting last.

Dramatic structure begins with setting, proceeds to action, and culminates in emotion. The setting is critical, because setting narrows down the possibilities of a story.

An author can choose to use natural structure--if you want to diminish the reader's empathy for the emotional content. Or not. But being aware of it for me, is great, because now I can manipulate it consciously, not by feel, which is what I've been doing.

But the coolest bit of all was his pointing out the fractal nature of dramatic structure. You can use it on a sentence level, paragraph level, scene level, chapter/story level, novel level.

I'm stoked, and anxious to put that into conscious action, although, let's face it, I'm prepared to fail, and fail miserably, mind you. Right now, a bright flash went off in my head, illuminated the room, and I'm back in the dark, but with a memory of what I just saw.

I had a great time with Charliewithouttheaccent on the IM the other day. The group of us in the room took turns throwing three unrelated things at him, and he tossed them all into a story concept. I threw monkeys, lamp, and photosynthesis at him. Charlie did not fail: "The monkeys are genetically engineered with grass for fur. They get their food from photosynthesis. The lamp is a sun lamp. Alas, the bulb has burned out, and they need to find a replacement!"

I think this activity takes a flexibility of mind that I don't currently have, so I'm going to be working on that when I get home. I need to learn how to do this!

Chip's presence is a real shot in the arm this week. While I'm still caught between that 'ready to go home' place and 'oh, no! I don't want this to end' spot, I can see that I'm going to be excited about writing once I get home.

And that's what it's all about, isn't it?

Another day. Another day of ekeing out word count. Another day when I'm darned sleepy, and there's not enough coffee to get me out of the 'someone just smacked me over the head with a club' sensation behind my eyes. Every blink is a reminder that I want to just keep them closed.

On the other hand, there's progress. The story took an unexpected twist last night, which I see as a good thing. Heck, if I'm surprised, surely that bodes well for developing a reader's surprise. Still, I have maybe 2-3K more to go, and that all has to be done before 9A tomorrow morning. I'll have eighteen hours after class is over.

I'm not starting to pack until tomorrow, and if week four or week five is the hitting the wall and then finding energy to keep going, then week six is that 'oh, my gosh, I'm glad it's almost over' stage. I'm going to miss the people I've grown to like so much, but I'm not going to miss living in a rarified environment. I need the real world too much--the pains and small joys and the humdrum contribute to my inner writer.

The fluster of the Odyssey experience is dying down, for which I'm grateful. I'm always astounded at the human ability to feed on horror, and that includes my own. I've smacked myself into letting go and having to produce a story has been a distraction.

There've been many comments about people who choose to attend a six-week workshop, some good, some bad. Speaking only for myself, I chose this particular method as both a challenge--write a story a week, build trust with sixteen complete strangers, a major issue for someone as shy as myself--and a statement (to myself) of my seriousness in this writing business.

I want to improve. I want to grow. I want to write stories that not only mean something to me, but bring enjoyment/insight to others.

This is late, I know, but I decided sleep, even three hours worth, was far more useful to me than attempting to update this under bleary conditions.

Trust me. It would have been mega-bleary. I stayed up with the story until 4A (and you thought you were all done when those babies grow up and don't get sick in the middle of the night, ha! Try sitting up with a sick story that won't tell you its plot problems.), got the end to about where I wanted it, and tried to fix the middle to get it to end right.

There were simply not enough brain cells still awake at 4A to do it justice. So once again, I turned in something that wasn't 'complete' although it did have a beginning, a middle, and an end like all mine have had here.

I didn't even have to resort to "And they were all eaten by bears!" which has been the current suggestion for endings.

Another day in class with Chip, and one I wish I'd been more awake for. He did run us through an exercise that I think will prove valuable to me once I get home. It was: Pick three typical actions a character would have to accomplish in a science fictional story. Here's your character. (Mine was a 21YO college dropout-- female.) Then construct plausible reasons that your character (and they were all over the map in terms of ages, genders, skills) can accomplish these three things.

It was fun and quite doable, so I'm keeping this technique in mind the next time I need to plot a story.

But now it's almost time for dinner, and I've accomplished nothing for the afternoon except some sleep. I think I should go work.

But yay! The last story is in! If I had some beer, I'd drink it.