251 words today. No graveyards, although I have the strange tendency to veer whenever I catch sight of one.

Today, however, I am tired. I don't care if the chocolate is yelling for attention—my bed's voice croons and my eyelids grow heavy.

Surprisingly, I am not dead.

Could have fooled me.

School is wrapped up, stuffed into various closets, and the gremlins given their marching orders to first grade with strict instructions to return once in a while with hugs.

Next year's class isn't looming, and won't until I have a list of names. That should give me a minimum of four weeks to pretend I have no job.

Well, other than the bathroom remodel. Which actually doesn't have a begin date—we're still waiting for ordered bits to arrive. Work won't start until we have everything here.

So, the house decided we needed another project, and the vine (a close cousin of Virginia's hair in the Tenth Kingdom) which had grown up the chimney, spread sideways to cover the entire length of the house and which was pursuing the takeover of a second side, decided to let go of the roof. All of it. Okay, two-thirds of it. It was a complete release followed by a clean dive into the pool. Half of it is chopped up and in the small trash bin we ordered. The other half is lying there and refuses to get up on its own. I have this horrible premonition that I will be chopping vines tomorrow.

The best image for today? A child my kids grew up with—which means he's at least twenty—walking down the street followed closely by his pet duck. No leash, and Cody is about a month and a half, and has obviously imprinted upon the over-six footer as his mom. I wish I'd had my camera. (They were also about a half mile from home, so apparently duck has taken to long walks.)

I started the diet today, once I decided I'd recovered enough from yesterday's torture to do it. I'm giving myself another day before I start the walk/gym routine. The goal with exercise is to nail the habit over the summer so that I continue once school begins. I figure the dogs will help. Because yes, we currently have two. At least until Zoe gets taken to camp where David is, and since that's not me doing dog delivery, it'll be a bit longer. Zoe's a 55-pound husky, and her head reaches my keyboard. Harley is quite jealous of this ability, and proves it by attempting to climb in my lap.

Since it's vacation, I started it right: I did nothing worth mentioning. Well, dishes. And then there were the billion trips thither and yond (primarily yond, where yond equals shopping at Kohl's and Target) for the slug. I took a nap. I'm thinking about writing, and that will most likely start up tomorrow.

Vacations. It makes it all doable.

While I was floating in my own personal dead zone this past weekend, I managed to forget Mom's birthday. Eee! Remedial call ensued this morning.

And we had a little conversation about the Slug's desire to get her scuba license. (Because after all, that license is going to get her to and from work much sooner than an honest-to-God driver's license. Say, if there's a tsunami.)

Mom: Well, maybe she'll become an oceanographer like I wanted to be.
Me: *stunned silence as I, a. parse this bit of information, and b. dress my mother mentally in a wetsuit and flippers, then resolve to buy her snorkel and fins.*
Mom: *natters on about lack of opportunity in the old days and how she'd planned to live (surreptitiously, is my guess) in Pacific Grove on the beachfront.*
Me: Mom! It's not too late! We'd just need to get you a wetsuit with a skirt!
Mom: *laughing*
Spousling: Why am I thinking about Fantasia?
Mom and I: *hysterics ensue*

If I do manage to get a photo of Mom in flippers and snorkel, I am so posting it. But it'll have to wait until my mom, the jetsetter, returns from Hood River, next weekend's trip.

The latest amusing dog funnies:

1. Harley is crashed on the couch beside the Spousling, who is watching some war movie. The guerillas yell, "Down! Get down!"

Harley picks up his head, stares at the TV, and complies.

2. Last night, after I'd been asleep for an hour, so it's 12:30A, there is a knock on our bedroom door and a plaintive moan from the Slug: I can't find Zoe anywhere!

Remember Zoe is a 55-pound husky? Something that big is usually quite difficult to lose.

So I drag myself out of bed and begin the search. The backyard is locked on the poolside, so there's no way she could have escaped. There's no hideyhole we haven't checked downstairs. The Slug checks the front yard and down the block. I continue to call the dog's name and search, Harley at my heels. I finally trip back upstairs to get the Spousling up for the search, open my mouth, and trip over Zoe. On the floor. By the TV.

(That's right. She has acknowledged the Spousling as the alpha dog. My days are numbered. When she realizes that she can step onto the bed and snuggle up like Harley, I will not have a bed any longer. Eesh.)

Then it was a fight to get her into her crate, since that's where she sleeps because we can't trust her not to pee on the rugs. She's had way too many accidents in the past.

In writing news, there is none. Yet. But my recovery period is over (except for the part where I see my doctor about my lingering cough) and I Get. To. Work.

Expect word count in tomorrow's report, or feel free to mock and harass me for lack thereof.

Let the mocking begin.

For lo, in the land of writer, there were no words, nor rewriting, nor cogitation upon languishing stories.

No, there was another three fricking hours of choir practice.

And another three fricking hours (or more!) tonight. With the prospect of yet another three hours on Thursday night if things don't go well.

So, today, while all the darlings are away, I am practicing the parts I am uncertain of, dealing with that fatal tendency to sing pescados rather than pecados (The difference a letter makes: "take away the sins of the world" transposes to "take away the fish of the world"), and sneezing my goddamn head off.

When my nose isn't running down my face, that is.

(But I appear to have my wheezing/coughing crap under control. Sort of. For the moment.)

I will be less cranky when this whole deaconate ordination is over. Great idea in theory joining this choir, too, less than practical in reality—along the lines of "what the hell was I thinking in February?"

Meanwhile, I have stories dancing through my head. Granted, they're more like strip teasers than Gene Kelly, so I can't quite land on the one I want to dissect. Dammit, they all call. Even ones I haven't thought about in years.

Remember Zoe and the bed? This morning there were four of us in the bed. The Spousling, me, Harley, and you guessed it, Zoe.

Shades of having small kids all over again. However, I get up before Harley crawls all over me and gets stuck straddling (in this case, the Spousling's) chest. If he doesn't know when to jump out of bed, I can't help him.

The good news, however, is that I can download the Ideo email. And sort it into the right boxes for the slush readers. So that bit is caught up before it got too astronomical. And while I can slush online, there is no organization to it. At all. It's whatever is in my outbox. The end. That's just not good enough.

Mostly today will be as chauffeur sadly. The Slug has a dentist appointment, a doctor appointment, she's hanging out while I have my voice lesson because damned if I'm running her home and then heading back for the lesson. She can just take the scuba book and study.

Yesterday was the same thing, except that she had to go to college. The child is taking calculus AND statistics this summer. At least her counselor voiced our concerns: how is taking calculus again (third time!) going to be different? Answer: She is going to study.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.

I think I'll put on my tiara and pretend I'm someone else.

The runny nose is still running, the eyes are still watering, and the sneezing has yet to commence. I am thinking I should stay indoors all today.

And I would, too, if circumstances didn't mean I had to accompany the Slug to take her driving test. We are anticipating nothing but good results for that, btw. I have to remind her about the stop sign (before you even get into the parking lot—miss it, and it's an automatic fail) and her tendency to apologize for every little mistake.

However, said Slug is already up and showered and outside washing/cleaning the car. There is much to be said for taking a driving test.

Another two hours of choir practice with all the music, and I mean, all. With a minute or two between each song at best, and an audience of a bishop and whoever the priest/monsignor, whatever, is going to be the MC for the entire ritual. Bishop Curry confessed to nervousness, as did the other guy, so I don't know what to expect, other than three hours of pomp and panoply.

This morning, as I dragged myself from my bed and pillow to the coffee pot downstairs, I discovered bodies. Extra bodies. One per room, one per couch. Evidence pointed to yet another body in the office. Did I know these bodies were going to show up? Of course not. I don't even recognize one.

The suspect body in the office should prove to be the eldest child. I am wondering if he has come for Zoe and the rest of his stuff that decorates my living room and for how long.

I might actually find out in the next couple of hours, too, provided all the bodies reanimate.

But it's time to dose myself with all the medication at my disposal, and see if I can't prevent this allergy attack from worsening. Because sneezing my head off at a rehearsal (right after the one where I coughed my head off) is not good. Nor do I want laryngitis.

The temptation to fall back into bed for a nap already is quite high.

I sat and wrote for three hours or so last night. I only have a total of 200 or so new words to show for it, but it's a start. Today there's more rewriting on this story to tighten it further, and then it's out the door.

Anyone remember "Trash Fairies"? The one Nancy Kress thought would never sell because of implicit gaydom of the story? (Which, mind you, slipped past me, but nailed another person or two, so I had to take it into account.) That one. The last rewrite I'd done on it was four years ago. It had also been out to more markets than I remembered, but one of those has a new slush reader, so I can begin there.

It's about all I could do yesterday. The allergy attack on Tuesday turned into a vicious cold on Wednesday, and I'm dealing with the freaking side effects right now.

If the temp's above 85º, colds should be verboten.

The Slug managed to weasel the car out of me for three separate trips yesterday, but since one was to take Harley to the dog park, I am not complaining. She wasn't thrilled with the fact that I won't let her take it to work today (eight hours in a parking lot isn't quite what I call a good use of car, especially if I need it for some reason) but she'll live.

One reason I don't sell much is because I don't have much out. Even with a spreadsheet charting every story and where it's been when, I can't manage to keep things flying out the door.

So last night when I dreamed that I'd sent out six various stories simultaneously to six online markets... well, that's a nightmare in terms of work, but I was happy when they were all sent.

Just so's you know, I'm planning on being more rational since the cold has turned me into zombiemom.

I can't hear. I can't smell. I can't think because my brain is so slowed and hollow.

Zombies made a home visit yesterday, but not that I noticed until it was too late.

Another hour or so working with Trash Fairies, my attention divided by little things like jumping up at the sound of the timer to take pots off the heat and mix things together.

I'm tightening, nailing this story down to one turning point, yet keeping some of the complexity of the rest. The scene with Mom is going, as much as I'll miss that short little scene, because really, all the disapproval Harry will need, he'll get from the council's decision.

With any luck, I'll lose 500 words there, and that'll make me happy.

I'm toning down some of the fairy images... these guys don't have wings, frex, forget the funny costumes, and I'm going to up Harry's vulnerability in terms of bashing himself every now and again. If only because I want the critical scene to focus on his shortfalls instead of the baby's. (Trey's comment on how he felt the baby was good when I needed her to be and difficult when I needed that was very helpful in this decision.)

And... well, we'll see. I am never the best judge of these things. Ever.

But it's a great exercise (for me) on honing the plot and trying to figure out exactly where I need to keep the focus.

In other news, the middle son has decided we need to meet the girlfriend's parents (who do live in town) over brunch. Today. I eyed him suspiciously yesterday from my less advantageous position of his shoulder height and asked if there was something I should know, like say, any discussion of a wedding next summer. He'll graduate next May with a BA in History, but he wants graduate school and to teach on the college level. She's pre-med and planning accordingly. I'd like one of them to be finished with career plans before they make the move. Not to mention that they're both young. Drew just turned 21, and old soul that he is, he still can't escape the fact that he lacks life experience.

But hey, I'm only the mom. Why should I have a say?

Now, off to write before anyone else gets up and disrupts my day. (The middle child already has, disturbing the dog enough to ferociously bark at him since he was holding the cellphone making the ungodly alarm noise.)

The deaconite ordination is over. There are sixty more deacons running live in the LA environs, all of them quite happy about it (and yes, after three years of training, I think I would be, too) and best of all, I'm done with that choir. It's tons of fun being directed by someone new, and a challenge to perform to her vision of what it should be. I have no idea how they got that organ onto the playing field where they staged the mass and ordination; I'm not sure I want to know. But the music flowed, the sound was great, and wonder of wonders! We were under a tent and had cushions to sit on. Lovely to be out of the sun that appeared just as mass began.

Now I can deal with my summer writing. So far, Trash Fairies is off with a reader and then I pushing the damn thing out the door again. It only went to a few markets before I trunked it before, so I have places it can visit. Provided, of course, that I didn't kill it in that last rewrite—which can happen when you attempt to pare the concept down to its basic parts.

I've got another short story in mind, well, two actually. If one doesn't work for me, I'll twist the other into shape. The first is partnership with Trey, and won't he be surprised to have it land splat on his doorstep, hrm?

Ideo's next, though. And then I get to play with the writing. And clean the kitchen. And maybe vacuum.

But writing is a major piece of today, because today begins the Clarion West write-a-thon. If you'd like the opportunity to guilt me into writing, now's your chance! Sign here, and you, too, can be my own personal guilt monkey!

Should I make my goal of $100 in donations which I will match, there will be a tiara photo available for blackmaili ridiculing purposes.

Act now! Don't let this golden opportunity pass you by!

Day 1 of the Write-a-thon:

So I pulled out my old bottle tree story, that was mine first before I decided to use it as the basis for a collaboration with Trey two years ago. He had managed to terrify me by dragging in government people and resetting the story in the 1930's. (Not that my years had ever been precise, but I'd had the turn of the century in mind, initially.) That twist threw me off completely two years ago, but now, it's easy to see what I have to play off of. And where the tale should go.

I haven't deleted anything yet. I'm just adding to it, and I tell you, a lot is going to have to go. There's more background and setting than we need for a short story, and we have enough material for a novelette at least.

375 words landed yesterday. This morning, since I got caught up in the confrontation between ole Snake, (aka Mr. Aager L. Gamble, and don't you love that name?) and Cora, I have another almost 400 shiny new words.

So yeah, Jaime may get her wish of 500 words by the end of the day.

One thing I'm attempting to do is to write whenever I have a few minutes. Even if I only get a paragraph, that adds up to significant word count, and it's one thing I did during my Clarion. I can't spend my whole day on the writing, or critiquing and discussions, but I can eke out wordage.

Bit by bit.

It's also terrifying to discover people are actually sponsoring me. I've got the woohoo! going for the sponsorships, the terror involved in having to maintain the writing for six entire weeks, and the added terror of camera and tiara awaiting me. Right now the photographic concerns outweigh the worries of Six! More! Weeks!

You wouldn't think that would be the case, but I hate photos of me, almost inevitably. I've had a total of three I've truly liked in the last thirty years. I don't hold out my hope for the tiara frosting, you know?

Miracle of miracles, Harley slept in.

Which of course means that I did. And just like when the kids first slept through the night, my initial thought was that he was dead... eaten by the silent pack of coyotes that he'd challenged from a safe distance three nights ago or attacked by our rabid rabbits fed up with his investigations into their ivy tunnels.

Nope. The little guy was on the Slug's bed, stretched out on his back, paws twitching.

He came to quite promptly when food was mentioned. Good to know his priorities are straight.

Day 2 of the write-a-thon was surprisingly easy. I had most of the 500 words Jaime asked for before 8A, just because I accidentally opened the file on the taskbar. Later, whenever I passed by, I'd add (or subtract, of course there were Day 1's words to subtract) in bits and pieces.

I'm going to try for the same approach with today, and we'll just see how it works. I've got an hour before I run to the gym (because yes, I do not do things by halves, nosirree! If I am challenging myself with the writing, I'm going to challenge myself with the exercise I put off ALL LAST YEAR) and from there out to laminate at Lakeshore, run over to school to drop stuff off and pick up stuff, and head to my voice lesson.

Oh, it's a good day. After all that will be the floors downstairs, and the collapse should commence soon thereafter.

Nice to have my whole day planned out, and seeing that I didn't fall asleep until after midnight—despite my best attempts!—I'm grateful for the two extra hours this morning.

I'm just behind.

Already. *mourns*

Up and ticked off. Not a great start to the morning, I'd say.

I discovered late last night that we have someone arriving at the door for a pre-redo photo shoot of the bathroom. All well and good except for the disaster in the kitchen. You see, there were these hungry scouts (thankfully, not hanging around here) who needed peach cobbler. VATS of peach cobbler, which the Spousling made, mostly. Except he had to leave for another bit, and I got to make the vats of topping for the things and bake them.

Still well and good.

The scouts loved every bite. They left nothing. (Kind of like uniformed locusts, actually, with merit badges.)

My kitchen, however, is still sticky with pots everywhere, because the cleanup crew (ie, the guy who made the mess) has not cleaned up yet.

Nor is he even out of bed.

So, I've decided that there is to be vacuuming in about two minutes.

Writing did not make me too happy last night. I got 425 words—sucky ones. I still don't know where the next scene is going to go, just that I a general direction: things have to get even worse!

Yeah, lovely.

I'll kill a few more after our visitor vanishes. My lovely tool to torture the lounge lizards with (the vacuum, d'oh) awaits.

Harley has done his job for the day. He woke me, got me to the computer, and is now snoozing. He would be significantly more awake if he realized I had food on a plate that I did not have to retrieve for myself.

As long as I chew very quietly, I will not have to eat under those sad-eyed, ever hopeful, puppy dog looks.

Taking a note from Bear—Wow! That's an outline? I can do that!—I outlined the story So Far, and realized I needed to up the tension between Cora and Joab.

Voilá! Three hundred words. (Come to mama, babies. *bundles them up and stuffs them in manuscript*)

Maybe I should try that more often. At least it would get me to write the pivotal scenes. Then I could figure out the transitional stuff after. (Oh, like that would work. Doofus.)

*Suddenly realizes her alterego is talking to her and eyes it*

(Like that ever works.)

The bathroom remodel is scheduled to start July 9th. By today, we must nail down those tub fixtures (because of course, the ones I want don't have a tub mount hand-held sprayer, so I must rethink the entire thing and what I really want. And then there is the tub issue. As in we must have one, so we will have to pick one out and have the Spousling test it. He's the critical person. If he's comfortable in it, I'll be fine. But it's got to be at least 24" deep as opposed to the 16" or 17" we currently possess and never use.

Somewhere before then, I must run north, grab my mom, and head to the Bay Area—Colma, in particular. For those of you not recognizing the name, well, it's claim to fame is that it's 1.78 square acre town in which 73% of that land is graveyards. Yep. Pretty much a city of the dead. With a few living beings scattered on top to make it interesting.

We are finding great-grandma's grave and getting a headstone for it. This is a big deal for mom, and I'm happy to accomodate her.

With any luck, we'll see my ex-sister-in-law and a niece or two, and then my best friend from college and another dear pair of friends that I can introduce Mom to for the first time. Since they're of an age, I think they'll hit it *right* off.

I want to pick blackberries, make jam in Karen's kitchen (she's not going to love me for this, but then she's the one who reaps the jam for the most part, so I can ignore most of the complaints) and just putter around.

Plans r us. Now to call everyone and find out they're out of town all next week.

And the day begins. With a smart smash to the head. How did it already get to be time to go to the gym? I haven't done my chores yet!

And the hacking continues.

On both levels—physical and writing. I conquered another 250 words last night (although my first typo was worlds), and am preparing to hack some more from my head later today.

I'm still entranced by Bear's 'outline' of her novel, and I'm going to work on that with a story inspiration, just to see if I can't get somewhere much faster.

We shall see, because I love these two images together, and there's a story between them IF I Can Only Unearth It.

Today has to do with bathtub fixtures and bathtubs. There has to be some cleaning, because I am running away this coming week with my mom. It's turned into more of a trip than I first realized: we hit Colma, order the tombstone, visit the Presidio so I will (of all the family) know where my uncle is buried (I never met this one either, I just know a few stories like he committed suicide when he approached third-stage syphilis) and then we'll cross the Golden Gate, make a run through Marin to Santa Rosa. We'll see if my cousin, Clifford, is still alive (since we've lost touch with him), make contact with another cousin I haven't seen in twenty+ years to give her her mother's (my godmother and first cousin once removed) possessions and don't ask why she wasn't contacted when my godmother died, but my mom was... and then back to the Bay area to see the other people we want to see.

The Spousling leaves Sunday for his week-long backpacking trip. I must do laundry for my trip, and call mom again, this time with the suggestion that she come home with me next Saturday so I can get her to my sister's for the Fourth. (IOW, so she won't have another exciting trip via Amtrak's busing system.)

But hey, it's all about being home again by July, so I have a week to clean out all the cabinets prior to the demolishing.

More words last night than I thought when I went back to check. A whopping 340, and most of that streamed off my fingers like nothing. I love writing like that. (Although, I must say, it does help to have an idea of where I have to go.)

And then I spent another two or three hours dragging two images to a plot. Sadly, the two images had nothing to do with the main characters—if anything they're backdrop or the basis for world-setting. So it took a looooooong time, and I spent a bunch of time bopping around my doll artist links to find the characters. Which I did. Two.

I have a third in mind; I need to find a third image still—I may utilize Google image search for puppets and bad guys and any other search terms I can think of.

If you haven't guessed yet, images are critical to get a story off the ground for me if I don't know anything about the characters.

In other news, I've happened upon three background images for my 2008 layout in the journal, which makes me ecstatic. I'm repulsing the need to change its look right this second since the current one is okay, but doesn't have that comfortable feeling of 'me' like the last several have. The layout is fine. It's just the images/colors I've used. So... there may be playing once I get back into town. Not today, because today is filled with things like learn how to vacuum the pool along with the Slug because it has suddenly taken on a green tinge and scrub a kitchen floor and a bathroom, and do a few bits of laundry, and hit the gym, and remember to go to that Eagle Court before I run away for choir practice after which I'll return.

Did you notice that sleep isn't mentioned?

Yeah, me too. *sigh*

But I have zucchini needing to be picked and green tomatoes peeping around. I should hand pollinate some more (because you can't trust those bugs at all).

And then, ta-da!, the packing!

Don't worry, the laptop is coming with me. And I'll be buying internet at these places we're staying if I must, because I can't not report in.

The new story called last night, and I began on it. Having that rather vague outline in my head has helped. I have a chart for the path I have to blaze, but there are huge chunks I don't know about, all involved with the hows and a few missing bits based on the whys. When I hit those places, they'll slow me down substantially.

For yesterday's word count hit 1000. I'm not sure if that's to the fact that I'm writing in present tense or if it's because Leah read the first 400 words, told me it wasn't complete shit and strongly recommended keeping the focus tight.

I think I'm doing a far better job of that, now.

The temptation is to pop that file up this morning and work on it some more, but I'm being strong (which I wasn't last night when I tried to stop at 700 words). I know I'll get bogged in writing when I have things to do like, oh, pack. And laundry, now that the washing machine is free, and there's always pick up the rental car.

Of course, the laptop is coming with me, so there will be some writing no matter what tonight in Fresno.

(And internet access! We've dragged Mom into the 21st century! Not that we can get her to play at the computer. No, she's too afraid she'll break it by turning it on. Reassuring her has not taken.)

And that's it for the moment. I've got to get moving.

Starting with my coffee.

I made it to Fresno yesterday, nailed the 250 words, spent the remaining time booking hotel arrangements online.

Today, we hit Colma, found my great-grandma's gravesite and ordered a headstone. There's no one left to ask why she never had one, and Mom was adamant about remedying the lack. Still, it's a pretty cemetery with lovely headstones (and angels and whatnots) from the late 1870's when they moved from SF to Colma. I would have taken photos of a number of them, but the camera refused to work.

It's still snubbing me.

So I am snubbing it and off to write.¹ There is no online anything for me tonight since I made the mistake of buying an ethernet cable that was only three feet long.

And the comfy chair is eight feet away.

Maybe tomorrow night it will be better.

¹We are using beer as my reward, although I tried to convince Mom that ice cream would probably work just as well. Sadly, she did not fall for it.

265 words tonight, and I have reached the point where my tale is not as pretty and shiny as I'd like.

My current disappointment lies in the fact that I have very little dialogue.

I will fix that tomorrow. Or if fix is not the right word, I will at least have more dialogue by the time I'm done.

In other news, I have seen one cemetery and gotten us lost in the wilds of Petaluma, a town of 5000 inhabitants mostly living in Victorians, and found the house my great-grandfather built in Petaluma. Tomorrow we will visit two more cemeteries on our way to Bodega Bay. Have I mentioned most of my relatives are dead? No? Oh.

They are.

When the Slug (my 19YO) asked what we'd done and what we were planning on doing, I told her.

Dead silence. (And so appropriate.)

250 words chiseled out of my head with a rusty bottle opener and an ice cream scoop. I hates middles.

The only good news is that now I get chocolate.

(Oh, three more graveyards, a trip to Bodega Bay, and a walk on the beach. Yay for beaches!)