Rejected. Again.

However, it was amusing, so I am posting the (most likely) applicable snippet to explain why they rejected my ded Charley story:

"Your Story Had Zombies, Cannibals, Fecal Matter, Or Genitalia Damage. We could easily do several spin offs: UNTIL SOMEBODY LOSES AN EYE: ZOMBIE EDITION. UNTIL SOMEBODY LOSES AN EYE: GENITALIA DAMAGE EDITION, etc. So if you sent a story that fell into any of those four categories, you weren't merely competing with hundreds of other authors, but you were competing even more aggressively against the numerous zombie, cannibal, or poop stories. Despite almost unbearable temptation, we really can't justify including more than one story where an innocent penis becomes detached from its body of origin."

The truly scary thought is that there are others writing stories on this subject matter. I can't wait to tell the kids who think I'm a weirdo. (So, now they'll know I'm in an exclusive weirdo club of some kind. Woo!)

So, sorry, Charlie, you just didn't measure up.

(Now where to send this... oooh! Wendy. *snicker*)

There was writing last night, because I had both Charlie and Amber to word race with. Not that we were really competing in the word count, but knowing there's someone who is slogging through the ugliness that is writing when you're not in the mood (or you decide you're not in the mood) is very inspiring. So you can all thank my support staff, because lo, there would have been little work accomplished in the land 'o words had they not egged me on.

Jaime passed on her notes of Connie Willis' plot wisdom, and it actually made some sort of sense to me. I am going to read it daily until I can quote the entire thing by heart and it sinks into my subconscious. Plotting ahead last night felt too easy, and I'm not certain this is the story I intended when I began it. I'm going to have to plot some more. Maybe on large sheets of paper, so I am not confined by 3x5 cards.

I cleaned the office yesterday, then promptly made a mess. It's still waiting for me, and I will be making a deeper mess as I work through my bus and pick-up tag and birthday hat prep and the sewing.

And now, I'm off. Maybe the kitchen first before I move back to the disaster that is my office.

Another night of plotting (which went easily, again, based on the margin doodle count: 0), additional writing, where I hung my heroine upside down over the back of a horse and mysterious rider.

I hate bringing in horses. I don't ride (unless you count the three times I've been on horseback, which is not enough to make someone familiar with all the possible nuances, and I feel as though I'm skittering on the edge of disaster in terms of believability.

Nor do I have the scents nailed down, although the bouncing? Yes. Got that. There'd be jostling, I'm sure.

Bottom line, though -- this story is not finished. Nor will it be finished tonight. So, there will be continuing angst to finish the dratted thing.

Did I mention we leave for Fresno tomorrow? (With laptop, of course.) And spend Friday and Saturday nights in a tent? (Sans electricity, natch, so writing will happen... um, somewhere in camp. I'm just not sure where.)

The things I do to see my kids who rarely call, and when they do, they talk to their father and not to me because of their rotten timing. (Or maybe it's excellent timing. Hrm.)

Today is more school stuff, laundry, packing... oh, and finding someone who will water while we're gone. Hopefully, some of the kids I know will be around and available. I hope. I hope. I hope.

But for the moment, it's about gardening, since I already sent another submission on its way.

Go me!

We're baaaaaaaaaaack! Did you miss me?

(Oh, fine. Be that way.)

We had a good time at Mom's, although we didn't do a phenomenal amount. I got Mom out and around to shop just for fun. With no time deadlines to be back, either, because the Spousling was there in case my 96-year old grandmother needed anything. (Doctor's comment: "Nothing wrong with her except old age." Ooooooookay. I should live to be so lucky.)

Of course, when I say we, I mean the Spousling and myself. Harley, not so much, unless you count being terrorized by the cat, who would lie in wait behind the chimney and swipe at him as he came out the sliding glass door, as fun. After a while, Harley got very suspicious of that chimney and needed an escort service for protection. Yeah. That would be... um... me. Right.

Mom claims Dot understands no, but I'm pretty sure that in the cat translation of things, no is the equivalent for "not right now while I'm looking."

Then it was a quick trip up to 6000 feet to see the kids, who, of course, played least in sight because of all the meetings/chores/stall mucking/sleep in every free minute. We did see them, but I got to wander the river and shoot a lot of photos. Which made me happy, even though the family claims there are no photos of them. There are. D'oh. I have a photo of Andrew and Alix, and another one of Greg with a startled stare. (Can I help it they're not as visually intriguing as a flowing river? Of course not.)

We arrived home and died. The culmination of five or six nights of not sleeping did the trick for me. I took two short naps yesterday and slept soundly all night. Woo!

There was writing. Not quite as much as I'd hoped--only 2600 words while I was on the road, and the story, the damned thing, is not finished, although I might have gotten it to a point where I can finish in another 1K. Maybe.

Unfortunately, there are many, many things to fix in this one, although it's not so much the plot. Which is a first. Ever. But characters that were walk-ons suddenly developed a life of their own, and now I have to go back and fix those bits that came before where they were nothing but a name.

And tighten. Naturally. And be more specific/use telling details all over.

(I've been reading Peter S. Beagle again. Oh, my, what I have to learn.)

So we're home. I've writing and a trip to school to deposit what I've finished/pick up more, and housework. Or at least clutter removal, because while everything made it in from the trip, nothing made it much further than that.

Lots to do and we're a third of the way through July. How the hell did that happen?

Headachy and cranky this morning. Cranky because the second never-ending story won't end. I've smashed the two confronting characters up against each other in an open field, one with a broadsword and weight behind him, the other, a young woman with antlers who's killed once already, and all they want to do is talk.

Have I mentioned that I hate uncooperative stories? I've nourished this thing, fed it regularly the past two weeks with tasty words and It Will Not End.

(Maybe it would help if I could figure out how she's going to win the physical battle without the help of the guy standing behind her expressing a desire to not interfere. Yeah. Kill him first. D'oh.)

I've been thinking story development this morning, helped by a post on David Schwartz's blog.

"Which got me thinking about whether the center of a short story, that moment of decision, might be more of a pivot point. In other words, maybe the difference between turning corners in short fiction as opposed to novels may be that in short stories the turn can be that center or core that we're talking about--in the novel it may be an important moment, but ultimately it's one of several, whereas in a story there isn't room to turn a lot of corners."

I got to that paragraph and the light bulb went on, the bell dinged, and I connected with the current WIP. I've done that in this tale. Mairwen's adamant to be accepted as heir, but the point where she kills Innis is when she learns of Caric's betrayal and desires to retain his position of authority. *spin!* New goal. The old one is set aside to manage the one detailed situation, (up til now, her attempts to wrest control have been undirected), but the ending of this particular situation will resolve the larger issue of respect and acceptance.

So yes, there is/can be a pivotal point in a short, perhaps a specific dilemma that relates to the general goal (but appears new), which can effectively resolve the first issue by resolving the new problem.

I'm still pondering what this means to future stories for myself. I'm sure it's not something I must do in every short, but it feels emotionally sound and reader satisfying.

I must continue to think about this as I bludgeon my characters into fighting and ending the Damn Story. Because I don't need another novelette on my hands.

Really. (And I don't care if I'm writing long to prepare for the novel switchover, but geez. What a pain in the rewrites.)

ˇYa cabé! as my kids would yell.

I stayed up until I could write The End in good conscience. I did not skip by writing PUT FIGHT SCENE HERE; I wrote the damn thing. It took another scene to send Rhyd on his way, and thank heavens, I don't have to look at this one for a while.

Nooooooo. I have my witches. Which is even more of a trial to finish because I've written the beginning and the end (from two witches' POVs) and now have to somehow bridge them by the intelligent use of the third.

I don't feel so smart today.

However, one of my little projects is almost done. I'd found butterfly stickers, lovely, detailed images, and bought small wooden (well, 'wood'. Hrm. Wood by-products, maybe) triangles and squares to stick them on for durability. Then I sanded, stuck, and verathaned them all. Forty-two of them. I now must sand and refinish half, since a number of them ended up sticking to the paper when I pried them loose. (Lesson learned: Don't brush the verathane on items resting flat on the table. Pick them up. Like you did the first two coats, you idiot.)

Today, we're off for a quick trip to Camarillo. The Spousling to the Scout House, me to Big Lots. Woo! I've been wanting to get there for months now just to see what it's all about. I shall refrain from spending too much, run over to Michaels to see if they have a red tin bucket to match my two yellows and a blue, and then return home. Before that I must shower, sand, and paint. Maybe not in that order.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to remember where exactly I left off in witches, so I can actually think about it during the day, and all I remember are the teapots. Sadly.

So there is much to do and little time to do it in, although, hey! I made it up before 8A this morning. A miracle.

Maybe I'll even be able to repeat that tomorrow since I won't have to stay up until midnight to finish.

So, I switched gears.

*sottovoce* It was remarkably easy. */sottovoce*

I had to reread the entire thing, though. Turns out there's an entire scene, maybe two, missing from the first segment. Some kinks to iron out in the last bit from Bethany's POV, and a bunch more to write in the middle for Althea. Still. It might be a two-weeker, though, which would be sad, but not unusual, seeing how long the others have been taking me to write. (Also, seeing that this is week four of the Clarion Write-a-thon. We need one of these twice a year.)

However, bottom line: not enough word count for a YA. I'm at 11k, or thereabouts, at the moment. Even I, in my wildest moments of fantasy, can't see me adding another 15K to the thing.

Unless I add another POV.

Which I could, I suppose. From a kid. But I'm really debating over that. However, I went to bed with the notion being discussed amongst all the brain cells and did not lose it overnight, so I suppose I must give it serious study.

And because the brain couldn't settle down, I had a difficult time sleeping at first. I hate that. I hate that my brain won't do its usual shut down, the body picks up on all the activity and tenses, expecting it will be allowed to leap out of bed any minute now, and I'm a mass of competing neurons firing rapidly, not necessarily in sequence, just firing. Randomly. With big booms.

Obviously, there's a way going on here, and I had no idea. Tonight, I am taking a Chlortrimaton. (The PM stuff does not work, sadly. Just makes me twitch more.) And hot milk. I'm trying that again. (Maybe with chocolate. Chocolate's soothing....

If I get one more spam entitled Full of health? then don't click!, I swear I am clicking it to oblivion and beyond. Do these people have no imagination? (We won't mention spelling skills, since the ones they have seem to be related to their ability to cut-and-paste snippets of familiar works.)

Oh. And I'm cranky.

But I figured you'd figured that out already. (Even though the haircut was a success, and that means it still looks decent after having been slept on. Go me.)

I just realized I forgot one of my brother's birthdays. Oops. *adds phonecall to list*

A new character appeared last night, or at least the name of a new character. Gil. Do I have any idea what Gil looks like? Um... nope.

Although he's maybe ten and has a rash of freckles over the bridge of his nose.

(Funny, he suddenly resembles my best friend's brother when he was ten. Stupid brain. Now I don't think I can lose that image ever again.)

The good news is that my hind brain is working away at complicating matters. Yes, Sela thinks she's got matters all under control, but now here's a kid resistant to their magic that they haven't known about.

I do hope the brain comes up with something more than that by tonight. I mean, it would be nice to know what I'm going to write about, wouldn't it?

The sad with all of this? I'll have to rewrite the end to work Gil in. And maybe the beginning to foreshadow his appearance later. Hrm.

But first, I'm just going to write him.

The rest of today is catching up on the chores. I've pretty much finished all the prep I had, except for sewing the covers on the new mattress for the doll bed (I'm tired of the kids using it as a footstool or a chair) and a couple small pillows. So there could be a trip into Fillmore this afternoon with a load to exchange.

I just wish I had all the construction paper I need for the memory books. Although I could hit Lakeshore, I suppose... I just have no way of getting my rug into my car. The length and width of the car is nowhere the length of the box the rug will be in.

I read Charlie's chapters last night, critted them, and whisked them back. He'd asked for a sentence or two. Ha! I say, HA!

I'm sure one of these days he'll get tired of me complaining that I don't feel close enough to his characters, but until he stops writing the distance in on first draft, he's just going to have to suck it up.

(This time my mantra changed slightly: Lose the narrator! Lose the narrator!)

Yes, you too can receive my special touch that Charlie has referred to as golden.

*rummages in chest behind her, takes out blowtorch* Oh, here. Put on this suit of armor. You'll need it. And when it gets toasty in there? Remember, people I crit SELL.

(Just wish it worked in reverse. Dagnabit.)

Finally, there is nothing like being woken by the dog first walking, then lying on the pillow atop your head and resorting to dragging it off. And when that wasn't quite successful enough, licking whatever bits were visible. I think he's discovered his secret weapon. "No! No licks! I'll do anything! Want a biscuit? Argggggggggh!"

My name is Marsha, and I am a writing slacker.

Having been distracted and abused by the refinished-but-not-yet-dry table from hell (i.e., my classroom, a local hell spot), I am now ready to admit my failings. And I promise that no matter how the other table (a twin of the first and to also be refinished) implores, I will not allow myself to work until my hands ache.

Cross my heart, hope to die, run over my hands with a wayward belt sander.

Eesh. Five or six (I lost count) applications of Jasco for the twelve layers of old paint, two hours, maybe three, but who's counting?, of sanding, and three layers of marine verathane, because heaven knows the poor table deserves protection from kinders as much as I can give.

Yes, it's been a learning experience, and the third coat, applied at 5P yesterday, is still tacky to the touch this morning.

I swear to Cthulhu it hates me.

The middle child is home for less than twenty-four hours. After the luncheon today (as a scholarship recipient from the retired teachers for kids who hope to become teachers), he zooms back up to camp. With a load of bicycle parts and other stuff, plus the delivery service for kids working camp who forgot mundane things like, oh, retainers.

Did I mention I get the back seat when we go? Damn. My car and I'm simply not tall enough to claim the front seat between the Spousling and the Middle Child.

Still, there will be time to write today. Promise. Maybe not the whole 2.7K I owe myself, but some of it.

Life is back to normal for a few days. (Well, except for the bouquet blooming in the front hall, the remains of our 30th anniversary.) The child is gone (the one who remembered our anniversary and called, and when I asked how he'd remembered, he said his Palm reminded him. He is such his father's child. The other two, not so much.)

The first table from hell goes back today, and I repeat the stripping/sanding/painting process. The goal is to finish before I head back to Mom's, up north, back to Mom's to retrieve her, home for a few days, back to Mom's to drop her off, home, and then crawl into school the day after that.

Yes, I will be writing. Mom's going to the library for at least one book while she's here, so she can have quiet snuggle time with Harley on the couch.

I did pick up a few extra words, and I'm keeping track of how much I have to make up: 1660.

(Okay, so it's not a phenomenal amount of words, but hey! Every bit counts.)

The luncheon yesterday was quite nice. Drew's nametag said 'Andy' which was a bit of a shock to me, for I've never heard a roomful of people refer to my child as Andy, and he seemed just fine with it. (This is up there with David wanting to be Dave. Go figure. Alix, thank god, doesn't muck around with variations of hers, because Alexandra is too darn long. Small miracles.) We spoke to one ex-teacher, (aged 91! and looking more in her early 80's!) who bewildered Drew by quizzing me on my plans to go to college.

I was v. good and did not mention his mantra when dealing with my irrational behaviors: Old and confused.

It's cool, relatively, this morning. The dog woke me at 6:10A, so I'm up for good. I will throw on clothes, pack the car for the trip over the hill into Fillmore, and return with table. And maybe even class list! Which would be great. Because then I could print out the postcards for my kindergarten night to familiarize the kids with school, and maybe run over to the district office and see if I can't somehow borrow a truck to pick up my rug at some point.

(I am damned grateful Jane is running the district at the moment as we're now looking for a superintendent and assistant superintendent since they both moved to my home district. Really knowing the person in charge makes a big difference.)

And I am off.

(Okay, so just like Drew, you knew that. Shush.)

Harley jumped on the bed at 6:50 this morning. I played dead. Therefore, he harrassed the Spousling.

The Spousling played deader.

This would explain why I am up, the Spousling still in bed, and Harley has joined him for a postprandial nap.

I stripped and sanded yesterday. The stripping took an hour and a half or so, the sanding FOREVER. I am serious. Three hours, and the top still has little dings in it. I've heard of distressed furniture, but this is ridiculous.

However, I did learn a couple of tricks from the Spousling, who spent most of his day perusing his latest library acquisition.

I would be jealous if I let myself think about it.

Writing happened last night, and mostly after choir, which meant after 11P. I do not claim those words are keepers, other than they happened.

I'm also more than a little concerned that I'm not mean enough to Althea. Yes, I've gotten her to confront Gil (and some doing that took -- for a while, I wondered if he was even going to stay upstairs hiding behind the shades forever. But no, he put in his appearance and is thoroughly reluctant to give Althea the info she wants. So even though I broke an expensive teapot (and a window, like she has to remind herself), she still does not have the perpetrator. Plus Gil is highly suspicious, seeing that he avoids all of her magic spells.

So, yes, a bigger headache now, seeing that she's tried a couple of tricks she thought would work, but failed miserably.

Not to mention her paying tea leaves gig is gone, and $5 isn't going to cover the cost of the new teapot she ordered.

This day has sucked.

I've also discovered that Althea doesn't have the same comic potential as the other two witches, which saddens me. I'm thinking it's probably because she's acting without her trusty sidekick, because you can't tell me that a battered, electric teapot humping its way down the sidewalk, followed by electrical cord tail, isn't inherently funny.

I may be rewriting bits of this last scene, just for the teapot.

But at the moment, the sander is calling my name. Sadly.

My hands are still vibrating from yesterday.

I will be so glad to slap on paint soon. Cross my heart. (Well, I would if I could control my hands....)

Words to make up: 1540