July 1/800 words
Another bout or two of words yesterday, so I have another 800 for the scoreboard. I've already met my weekly goal, so whatever else I get this week is gravy. I'll take it while I can, for you never know when I'll come to a dead standstill over something.
My latest irritation is my recognition that I need a map, and quite probably two, to stick the distances in my head.
The monastery map has to be in great detail, down to the damn trees my damn characters like to hide among to hold their sekrit conversations. I will most likely need to figure out where the damn windows are and what they see out of them, in addition to the inner courtyards. I have a vague image of what direction things lie in from the infirmary or the kitchens, but that is it, and I need to have a better idea of scale.
I've also got to make a decision on how many people actually live in this particular monastery, and if it is as large as I think--they needed three healers for some reason, after all--then I've simply must add more bodies hanging around in the open scenes.
Because, yeah, three healers out of a total of maybe twenty or thirty too many, and the population wouldn't support it.
And of course, all these questions in my head lead to others: Are there other monasteries? There should be to maintain the balance of the military after all, and if there are, how the heck do they communicate with each other. Via birds? Fine. Then set that up.
Well. Now that explains why someone hit the boy in charge of the birds' well-being over the head last night and released all the birds: the mysterious person wanted to send a secret message to some other monastery.
But who? And why? And please, in the name of all that's holy, don't tell me that the monasteries are fighting amongst themselves for power, too. Because, dear god, everyone and everything else is. I think I've made my freaking point, already. Capiche, brain?
Oh... but someone else in contact with the military? Hrm. Interesting.
I should never crack open my brain and peer inside for answers. The flood of information and insights annoy the hell out of me before I find enough sense to slam the door closed and sit on it until everything in there settles down.
So yeah. There are maps in my future, and I hate big fat fantasy maps, so there's going to be a ton of resistance in my future.
The good news---hrm. Is there good news?
If there is, it's hiding.
But I have to admit that I'm enjoying the interaction between Bashak and his soul. Bashak's so focused on getting rid of the bird successfully, that's he's not paying attention to the larger picture--and that's where his soul burden comes in. Nothing like deadpan common sense to smack you in the face and realize where your priorities should lie.
In wedding-related news, the trip to the LA fashion district was successful. We left town about 10:30, arrived at noon, had the fabric in hand and were leaving by 12:45. We got home at 1:30 with 22 yards of fabric, the chiffon and the lining in the exact shade we needed, in hand. Too bad we didn't think to get the damn zippers at the same time. I think I'm going to have to order an 18" nile green zipper online. JoAnn's sure doesn't have any in stock in that color and size.
Someday I'm heading back to the fashion district. If you avoid the traffic, the trip's not that long, and the fabric sources there are amazing. A.MA.ZING.
July 1/850 words
Despite my best intentions, I got sucked into the well of Google research, and I have no Lassie to save me.
After much fruitless searching for ruins, ideally a map of a small city or an aerial view of some, I gave up and just went looking for architecture in the ancient Middle East. Lo and behold, I happened upon the Sasanian dynasty which existed during my time period, although in Iran, so I'm moving their architecture to Jordan, specifically nearer Amman, and hoping for the best.
Now I just need to find a building layout of an ancient city. Preferably not Roman.
Never a dull moment around here, and I'm trying not to let the research suck up my life, for another 55 minutes just vanished when I wasn't paying close attention. If nothing else, I'm going to have a pretty decent idea of where things are in the certain areas of the Middle East.
But morning writing first, I think, and then exercise and some dishes.
After that, I'll get back to the research.
I'm going to attempt to add in walking into my daily schedule this month. I've been good about the gym and the writing--so, it's time for one more, even though the resistance is fairly intractable on it. I'll try it for a week without a dog, and then, if that's successful, I'll add the dog.
Just one. Walking Zoey and Harley together is more stopping to unwind them than I want.
I'm going to have push the spousling to start working on the stuff I need him to do, or I won't get those floors done this month. Or the painting. And while I'm waiting for the ducks to get in a line, I'm going to start the flower girl's dress. An hour every day, and it'll be all put together in a week. Maybe less. My hated part there is cutting out the patterns, although I have a fold-up table in the garage that just has to come in to make my life with that easier.
Lots to do, only a month to do it all in. Eesh.
I think vacation is over, even though I'm still at home.
July 3/800 words
So I pushed through my reluctance yesterday and wrote twice like I'd promised myself. Already this morning, my inner voice is whining that it's Friday and a holiday weekend, and why don't I just give myself a little break here and not write.
It said that last night about the walking--which I did, but only because I said fifteen minutes, you can do it for fifteen minutes. And I did. My reward for being virtuous is a swollen knee this morning, which will need icing shortly, but I've already taken the ibuprofen.
A desire to be accomplished is always accompanied by commentary from the lazy kid in my head. When will it give up? When will I grow up? Is growing up all about tricking that stupid little kid or paying no attention to her? Because she doesn't seem to have a volume control--I've looked.
Life would be easier if I didn't have to fricking roll the boulder up the mountain peak every damn day.
So yeah. Whining has begun. And if I listen to her, I'm only sabotaging my goals.
It's just that there's a piece of me that really really really wants to do what she says.
I'm feeling as though there's too much to do and not enough time to just veg, which is annoying. But seeing that I vegged for a couple of hours yesterday by just reading a book, I can only blame myself if today has more tasks.
So, cutting fabric, cleaning the kitchen again (I swear, in my next life, food will not be so important) and a bathroom, and some planning with the spousling regarding house upgrades.
Then there's writing, writing, exercise, and walking.
If I didn't before, I now feel oppressed.
Stupid brain.
July 4/750 words
Some nights it doesn't pay to get up, but get up I did, and nearly tripped over Zoey at the side of the bed.
She's supposed to be in her crate. So instead of returning to bed, I woke her up. Her default setting—I want her to go pee.
Um... no. But okay. And now I have two dogs tumbling down the stairs to do just that. Fine. I get myself a glass of water, as the eldest child returns home. It's now midnight. I'm irritated that I'm awake because I never really got to sleep, and I leave both dogs with him and run back to bed.
Eldest child sends dogs to his room—Zoey complies immediately. Harley hangs by David on the way up the stairs.
I am in bed and smug.
Halfway up the stairs there is screaming. Dog screams. And they don't stop. I tear out of bed to see what the hell happened. We get Harley to the landing, who is still screaming, and check him out. The cone comes off in case that's it. Nope. It's not. Paws and legs are fine. His whimpers die. He gets up, wags his tail, and walks into the bedroom on his own.
WTH. We follow. And I lay in bed thoroughly awake, adrenaline at an all-time high, wondering if I should just give up on sleep and continue reading Charlie's book. I stick it out and drop off. Finally.
Flash forward to morning and a dog by my bed demanding food.
I get Zoey, we head downstairs, and Harley shrieks once and stops.
WTH. I check him, he's fine, and we continue downstairs with no problem, and of course, he's back to sleep by my side right now. I don't think the stairs are out to get him, even with that cone, and certainly not when he's going downstairs, but I'm not certain.
I wish dogs had a better means of communication, really, I do. Or I had a universal dog translator. It would make life easier, and I might get more sleep. Maybe.
Writing proceeds apace. Suddenly I have random people being knocked unconscious with rocks and threatening figures sneaking into the infirmary to stand over them.
WTH. Maybe I need a universal novel translator, too.
Nothing I know can come of good from this, because the entire monastery is filled with pacifists—okay, pacifists who will lie and blackmail and abuse their power—but it makes no darn sense.
July 5/750 words
Prayers for a Sunday morning:
Holy shit. Is it morning already? Can't you give me one day to sleep in?
Good lord, make the dog stop licking the carpet. Now. I mean it. Pleeeease. Don't make me get him a scrip for Prozac.
Lord almighty, I really don't want to write this morning. *beat* How about if you do it for me?
Please, dear god, let the Benedryl kick in soon. Because, ugh, my nose--what the hell is blooming?
It's all downhill from here, isn't it?
Since I've done so well thus far with following up on my advertised intentions here, I'm putting out a new one. *shudder*
Yes, I'm going to commit an act of sewing. This afternoon I will cut fabric, and perhaps, depending on how many hours that takes, even sew a few seams, should I be able to borrow my friend's serger.
I'm also going to attempt tissue paper to see if that keeps fabric from sliding. (If I still need it with a serger. I don't have enough recent experience to remember if I will or not.)
As to my major fear that's keeping me back from beginning? That I will somehow cut the flower girl's lining fabric in such a way as to not have enough fabric left over to make the daughter's bridesmaid's dress.
The only way to find out is to do it, right?
As for the writing—today begins Week 3 of Clarion West's Write-a-thon. It's not too late to sponsor me, and in doing so, financially help a stellar writing workshop. Small amounts ($1 or $5) are accepted as well as larger donations (the sky's the limit) and wouldn't you appreciate a guilt monkey icon of your own to display?
To understand just how well this program works for me, I've promised to write 2K a week on the novel. As of last night, I've written almost 9400, and relatively pain free, I might add, except for all the arguing in my head. (Count your blessings you don't live in there—it's kind of noisy.) I blame success on my determination to battle my writing reluctance to the death, a belief and judicious use of Write or Die (15 or 20 minutes, twice daily) and a friend at night to kick my ass via Skype.
If you'd like to be the guilt monkey in a more direct way, you, too, can kick my ass with Kelly. We meet at 7P with for about half hour or less, and anyone who needs a good kick in the butt will get it.
This whole endeavor is about keeping me honest and writing. So what if I end up with bruises on a certain portion of my anatomy.
Both POVs plots have veered a little from my grasp, and for the moment, I'm bobbing on the sea of prose without a lifejacket.
I'm waiting for the right brain to throw me a line, and we'll see if that actually happens. I don't quite trust her, and I'm likely to be towed out to sea by this novel boat, waves smacking my face as I struggle to keep my head above water.
Character arcs? Plot arcs?
You have got to be kidding.
I'm sure there's a prayer for that, too, but I'm stuck on getting the damn nose to stop dripping, and I think God's set his/her cell to silent. (Okay, I began by writing stun, but I'm pretty sure that's the Benedryl. Maybe. *casts a quick uncertain glance at ceiling*)
July 6/625 words
Something is stealing my time, and I am on to its tricks.
Aliens have invaded. Yes, they have. And they've taken over our computers with the nefarious goal of eating our time, so we get very little accomplished.
Don't look so surprised. The other day I found 94 (94!) files related to the novel on my hard drive. Obviously I didn't put them there, and what other explanation can there be?
It's just another chunk in the wall of delay tactics for me, with high hopes that I will search through each and every one with the fine comb of necessary and important things to keep.
Yeah, well, I'm on to you, PC! That MacPro with its totally clean hard drive looks better every day.
No morning write, although I wrote a little longer with Kelly last night to make up for it. It's definitely rough draft, filled with NAME and THIS ONE TOOs and NAME OF DRUG and FOR GOD'S SAKE, GET ANOTHER NAME.
On the agenda is a list of names. A list I can scan in a moment and choose something that fits.
I have no idea what these are to be; I simply have semi-coherent rules for names. Maryam, no. Maram, yes. Jonah, no. Janah, yes. No names beginning with a blend or a digraph, although certain digraphs (ch and sh, for sure) can be found in the middle of names.
My brain. It would have been so much easier to just steal names from everywhere in the Middle East and India. As it is, I'll have to search for them and change them.
See? Evil, totally evil, that alien who suborned my computer. Another reason to spend time with it.
Also, day 2 of sneezing my head off and Benedryl-enhanced confusion. I tamed the stunned sensation this morning by only taking half a pink tab, but I have breakthrough dripping because of it.
I would love to know what is causing this reaction, for I would track the blooming sucker down, drizzle it with gasoline, and cackle while it burned.
No, you probably don't want me for a neighbor today.
But take note: in 15 days, I have written a grand total of 10K on this novel. I'm never going to make 50K like Nanowrimo, but it's a lovely 10K more than I had when I started, and I only wrote 18K or so at Clarion when I was there. I should beat that goal, even when (not if) school and wedding stuff interfere.
(Well, provided that the alien in my machine lets go of my attention long enough to do some of them.)
(Stupid machine.)
July 7/625 words
Color me a failure.
I had it from a source I trusted (the groom—my first mistake right there) that the original flower girl and family would not be able to attend. Voilá! Instant new flower girl, replete with dress I must make. Done.
Only... not done.
My sister-in-law emailed to say that the original flower girl was available and would love to do it.
Ohmygod. So, yeah, I had to turn her down because I have the second and the fabric for her dress.
This is not about having an overabundance of flower girls. It is not even about having to reject one. This is failure on a large scale because I have transformed into the Bad Bad Auntie and disappointed an 8-year niece—even if she has been a flower girl four times before.
This child lives for dress up and playing parts.
Don't mind me. I'll be over in the corner swilling coffee in an attempt to drown the guilt.
I did manage writing yesterday, although last night's was a difficult bout of it. I've got a character returning to the stage, but in a new location and with her buddies, and I am not certain how she'll play this scene out. It does not help that I've got an image of part Wicked Witch of the East and part Streisand's Hello Dolly playing in my head—the part where the wait staff all break out in spontaneous Hello, Dolly.
Okay, so none of my characters are singing. Right. That's a plus.
But this last scene is about my other characters hanging around waiting for her and the tumult of the camp as she appears.
I am so chopping this scene on the rewrite, but it was a bit of a layover as I attempt to get to know the characters and their relationships. Three new characters, essentially, and one old one but in a completely different environment.
I am at +60K now, and wondering if I can even wrap up this book in another 40K.
I was also grousing to Kelly last night that everyone in this story is at odds with everyone else, including the upper echelon of the warrior ranks. And why should they be any different?
But I'm frustrated that it's similar to the struggles elsewhere, and the one real example of what it's supposed to be isn't onstage enough to compare and contrast.
Yeah. I think I hate my brain.
Especially when it smugly points out the similarity to real-life elements of my own life--like it just did in capital letters and THANKS, insight. Just go back to the corner you crawled out of.
I've been up an hour and a half. Is it too late for a morning do over?
July 8/650 words
In the on-going wedding sings the blues saga, the flower girl fiasco has been wrestled under control.
Yep. There will be two flower girls.
Which means...
Yep. I'll be sewing another dress. Swear to god, I won't be sewing any more. And any other weddings in my future? Yeah, you all. Everyone sews their own damn dresses, the groomsmen make their tuxes, and I don't to hear whining if you're only 8. I made my first dress about then; you can, too.
Now that I've got that off my chest, I can think clearly—more or less.
I must admit I am severely disappointed in Joann's, seeing that they only had one of the three zippers in the color I need in stock. And apparently never stocked the 18" length zipper. Because they don't sell that many in that size.
I must point out that if you don't sell something in a particular size, not stocking it may have something to do with the critical lack of sales.
I'm willing to order most anything online, but seriously. Zippers?
I'm calling Barrons in Camarillo first, because hey, a zipper today versus one next week? I don't care about the damn mileage.
Another good chunk of words accomplished yesterday. I'm not so happy about what's happening in the parent/child relationship—it's crossing the line into humor, and I'm not sure I need that here. Nor do I need Rakeen's apparently younger age than I initially thought.
Up until now, I had thought that he was about the same age as Bashak; now I'm rethinking it. A loss of a son who is just reaching his potential and a parent's grief at that loss can fuel understanding of her actions.
Maybe that's what I have to get Kalim to see—the universality of grief.
This morning, perhaps. *intones* This, too, can be rewritten. This, too, can be rewritten.
In dog news, Harley has been released from the collar of shame now that his tail has healed. I will not miss being poked in the legs.
I am thoroughly cleaning one room today, and the lucky room is... *pulls slip of paper from hat* the upstairs bathroom.
Uck.
For my next trick, let me vacuum the piles of dog hair and whatever Jerusalem crickets I can find indoors. The large one I vacuumed up last week (not going to touch those 3" ugly suckers, no sirree) apparently hid out long enough to hatch eggs. I found two half-inch long babies in the house in the last ten hours, one of which was on the table.
Life in SoCal. It's a never-ending visitation of interesting bugs and spiders and tiny scorpions. And piles of honeydew green chiffon.
July 9/700 words
No more excuses, dammit.
I've everything I need (including the zipper I must cut down by four inches) and cutting begins. The fabric is going to be tight, until I actually lay everything out and see that I have enough for all three dresses. Those flowergirl semi-circular skirts are worrying me.
The serger arrived yesterday afternoon, and once it's threaded (shortcut way of threading, tie the new thread ends onto old, run, clip old color off) the insanity begins.
I'm actually a bit worried about the insanity. These two have to be finished by the 20th, which is when the Slug shows up and I start hers. While the girls' patterns are certainly easy enough, I'll have to war with myself on fittings seeing that one child is in Colorado, the other in Pasadena. At least the local child, brother, and sister-in-law can be lured over with swimming.
No morning writing yesterday. I never got to it and then it was late, and then it was too late at 7P when I got online to write with Kelly.
I'm in the midst of hating this section with all the hatez I possess, so on the rewrite I have promised myself that I will cut it and rewrite.
I do know the overarching goal for this crowd, which is a surprise. I don't know what they all want on a personal level, though. That's going to take some pondering, and believe me, everyone wants something a little different.
So yeah, those negotiations and planning? Not going super well. Not really. And it's frustrating because I don't know the characters completely, yet here I have a roomful of them at odds (albeit in some minor ways) and no idea what buttons to push. How do you get conflict if you don't know that?
I'm writing through it, though, hoping to get a hint of the personalities involved so the rewrite will go smoother.
A third Jerusalem cricket dropped onto my desk last night, landing on its back with a thwap. The third. Well, the fourth, if you count the mother I got last week. But three in less than twenty-four hours, and this one was about 3/4 of an inch long. I'm not sure where it came from—the ceiling? Had it jumped? I was half convinced it had wings, and scooped it up with a tissue as quickly as I could. And then dumped it outside.
Supposedly these things have a painful bite, so my personal goal is to not touch them at all. Srsly, these things are the ugliest ever, like no cricket I've seen before, and are huge. Nor do they chirp, which makes it difficult to find where they're hiding.
But if they're going to fall on me out of thin air, I may have to carry an umbrella.
Or a can of Raid.
Now, off to write and cut tissue paper pattern pieces before the dentist.
July 10/400 words
Morning horror tales.
I woke to an email from my brother: "Heard you were knitting the wedding dress."
O.O
Never in my wildest nightmares, even the ones where the world comes to an end, did I consider knitting any dress.
No, because once you go there, it's but a small step to knitted sandwiches, knitted cameras, and a knitted cake, complete with doves.
I plan to recover from the scare by washing the dog. There's nothing like wiping one fright from your mind by substituting another.
Actually, it's not the washing that's horrific. It's the drying off and keeping from running wildly around the room to rub his ears dry on the carpeting.
If you want this life, the line forms right here. *points* And no pushing!
Both bits of writing were accomplished last night. The evening bit was made more so by the fact I have a compatriot in writing crime and a new scene. Thank god. The other scene needs a hell of a lot of work on the rewrite, although I can be smug that I didn't write: WARRIORS ARGUING OVER INVASION PLANS WHILE KALIM LISTENS IN HERE.
It was close, though, so I can't be too smug.
What I can be smug about, however, is the fact that I met my word goal for the six weeks yesterday—not quite halfway through my time limit.
If I keep up this pace, I should have 25K by the end, (which is terrifying me, so I'm not actually going to say that I will) which is astonishing.
I mean, twenty-four weeks of the same would give me another novel. O.O *backs away from that thought while warding off teh Evil*
My word count per each ten-minutes is creeping upward, too. Initially, I was happy writing 100 words in ten, and 200+ in ten is typical now. Last night, I wrote almost 300 in that same time period.
Bless that Write or Die site.
And perhaps, just perhaps, I've unlocked my writing by learning to release my control over it, thereby allowing the words to pour out.
I could draw a comparison to my voice and the fact that every body part I had controlled it for a good 50 years, and now, finally, it's freed and I'm able to sing from my diaphragm.
The ease I have now, contrasted with the mental involvement I had before (Uh-oh, here comes that high note! Squeeze!) is very freeing. That G two octaves above middle C—why sure. I'll hit that. Tighten the pelvic muscles, drop the jaw, sing.
Not bad for an alto. And yay, me.
Off to wash the sleeping dog and terrify someone else in my life, courtesy of my brother, Michael. Pass it on!
July 11/925 words
The good news for the morning is that there is dim sum in my future.
Not everyone receives a fortune like this, but today is my lucky day. The last time I had dim sum was... probably when we lived in the Bay area, and I could hit Chinatown every so often and treat myself.
I just hope this place in the San Fernando valley lives up to its reputation. That's all. I'd hate to sully my romantic memories of dim sum with the cold cruel enlightenment of reality.
The new rule: no more naps. Yesterday's two hour wonder killed my need to sleep, and I was awake until 1:30A. The dogs got fed at 5:45A, as usual, but then I went back to bed and didn't wake up until 8A. My day's half gone!
I haven't quite cut into the fabric yet for those dresses. Because I've been avoiding it, and the honeydew chiffon and matching lining stare at me evilly when I pass by. I did get all the pattern pieces I needed cut out. So this afternoon, I will achieve layout and see if my worst nightmare comes true: I don't have enough fabric.
I am holding my breath, and I hope you are, too. I will need all the support I can get. As the Slug told me, "Well, Mom, you can always go back to the LA garment district and get more. Right?" Right. Because what's another three hours out of my life when I should be sewing?
Writing went well yesterday--the most daily word count I've had since beginning this adventure. It helped that I knew what had to happen, and it gladdens my heart to punish Bashak by giving him an epidemic for his infirmary. And just when he had it mostly under control. HA.
Excerpt:
Bursting into the room, he found another patient, who had dropped onto the empty mat nearest the door. This one was a young girl, flushed and rubbing her head.
"My master sent me," she told him, her large eyes glassy. "I'm hot. And cold. And my head hurts."
Bashak bent to touch her forehead. The child was burning. He clucked soothingly to her, and she closed her eyes. Another cold compress dipped into his bowl of water, and he hoped it would reduce the fever, or at least keep it from rising until he could get the tisane into her.
Finally, in the life that is my hell, I have just discovered a half-eaten, partially-ripened tomato on my rug.
Zoey (the Alaskan husky) is back to her summertime habit of snacking between meals.
July 13/925 words
A missive from the Slug in response to a request for her measurements: "ok so i measured my chest and it was just under 37 inches... but that was using some rope and a ruler"
Critical information I did not get: just how fat was that rope? Also, what happened to the string you said you were going to use? Did a moose eat it?
She does get points for creativity and resourcefulness in the wilds of Colorado, because apparently Big Lots in Fort Collins did not stock tape measures. It's only a slight matter of luck in her choice of geography that she didn't have to rely on vines or kudzu.
And at least I have something to gauge dress pattern size, but my guess is the pattern makers weren't using a rope and a ruler for their measurements, so I'll still be punting. A muslin mock up for this strapless bodice is in order.
I achieved lining pattern layout in approximately six hours of going, "No, that won't work. Try this." repeatedly. Those full circle skirts sucked up fabric, but I managed to get two of Alix's skirt pieces cut from the excess fabric between half-circles.
Now to begin the sewing. Bleh.
I managed to write both Saturday and last nights, but skipped the morning. I'll make that up by meeting Kelly at 10A this morning, and I'm pretty sure the 7P bout is slowly getting engrained. It's beginning to feel weird to not write about that time, as evidenced by the fact that I showed up on Skype at the usual time to discover the posse was meeting--like we have most Sunday nights for well over a year. I blame the long-term pattern puzzle for having sucked most of my brain.
Which also explains why the writing last night suckitysuckedsucked, as did my character interactions, although I'd thought I'd begun at a logical place. I'll look at that soon, because I can't go on from here without addressing that particular snippet. I'm debating another POV character since Mareet is missing in action, and I'll ponder that some more in terms of her character arc. The possibilities could be overwhelming, and I don't want to experience that feeling again. It would just show the woman in a semi-vulnerable light and highlight the relationship of the ship pairs, which are good things. Plus, I'd get to know her a bit better in the process.
Decisions, decisions.
But I think I just managed to convince myself that it's a definite plus. And how hard can it be? Right now I have Kalim observing Rakeen, who happens to possess Kalim's body, and I thought I'd never manage that, but I think I'm doing it.
Okay, so I'm believing in that little scenario. Maybe that's all it takes.
Onward and upward.
I suppose I'll take those highly suspicious measurements and compare them to her pattern next. Where's my rope?
July 14/675 words
I finally pulled myself out of the quicksand pit of staring at the sewing projects yesterday. I did so by promising myself I would only rethread the damn machine and test the stitch on the fabric.
There's just a teensy tiny problem:
The Juki is possessed.
This particular serger owns four means of threading four (or fewer) spools of thread and can operate with one or two needles. I am using three threads and one needle. Piece of cake. I tied new threads to the old, ran the serger, but only two threads made it through the maze.
Yeah, one broke. So I whipped out the manual, found the page of instructions for the red pathway and began rethreading from scratch. That's the bottom looper thread, so the Juki pops apart to allow you access. I managed, finally, to get my thread's path to look like the one in the manual. I test.
Another thread breaks, this one on the yellow path. I thread it, impressed by my dexterity in pinching the thread between my two forefingers (because there is no other way in hell to do this, not with everything else in the way) and ramming it through the needle's eye. Test. Break.
By the third time this thread breaks, I consider myself an expert and the serger senses it.
Its foot falls off.
I swear I didn't touch it.
But I return to the manual, find how to get the foot back on, and test again.
The damn needle falls out.
Two positions for that needle, but the right position is how I remember it. Test.
Not quite right, but maybe that's about thread tension. Play. Test. Play. Test. No. Read the manual. Again. Okay, for the yellow thread tension to actually work, it should be in the left needle position. Switch needle position. Test.
Stitch achieved! Yay! I test on fabric. Hrm. The tension is off.
Reset tension. Test. Fail. Tweak tension. Test. Fail. Repeat 12 or 15 times until I realize something is still not right and go back to check the thread paths. All of them. Extremely carefully.
Hrm. I forgot to loop that first catch. Which means I must rethread it all. over. again.
This time, because I have achieved familiarity with the serger, we operate as though the serger is the patient in for a paps and I'm the rushed gynecologist late for a surgical procedure and dammit, let me get in and out of here, because I should be somewhere else. Stat.
Thankfully, the thread whizzes through as if it knows the way. Test.
Wow. That's a beautiful edge.
But now, it's been two-and-a-half hours. Of prep. I turn off the serger, leaving the actual sewing for today.
Yeah, I don't know about you, but I'm walking past that machine on the kitchen table, warding off its evil eye whenever I pass.
No, I don't trust it. Would you?
Note: Yes, there was writing. No, I don't want to talk about it. We hates it, precious, oh yes, we do.
July 15/800 words
Amazingly, the possessed Juki has calmed down and is sewing the way it's supposed to. I am the proud possessor of half a flower girl's dress and will likely be finished with the entire thing sans hem by this evening. I'm considering putting in the zipper by hand, since I want the finish to be perfect, and refuse to do an invisible zipper because the closest I can come to honeydew is white.
Go me. Photos will be posted at some point.
My morning words arrived at 6P when I finally felt too guilty to show up and write at 7P without them. In no more than thirty minutes, I had a grand total of 800 words, and the ones that had given me such grief the night before were not so bad in the daylight.
Why is this?
I'm sure my delay was because I was convinced they completely sucked. And I'll grant you, stuff is missing from this scene--my base for writing is character, dialogue, plot, and in that order. Do you see any setting? No, I didn't think so. Thank you. That's my filler, right there. But I had enough to look at it in retrospect, without all the emotional angst of OMG, it sucks!, and go from there.
Wrapped up that scene in the infirmary, started a new one from a new POV (going to have to fix that on the rewrite, let me tell you) on one of my ships.
Of course, I had to do research on ancient shipbuilding, and landed on a variation/combination of a dromon and a Roman merchant ship. Mine, of course, won't have oars because they're not sailing on water, and I'll need more sails.
Plus, I landed on the name for the partners who steer/sail these ships--the Pairs. Simple, but I'm happy with the nomenclature, at least until something better wanders by and smacks me upside the head. So, progress. And I'm a happy girl with my ships and the men/women on them.
I'm not doing the writing first, this morning. It's about getting out of the house to exercise. With writing after. And sewing after that until I have to pick up the Spousling, who will return from his culinary adventures in Cub Scout camping to go straight to the doctor's office for the next pain block on his lower back.
Yeah, life is just one big roiling pot of stew right now. Too much to do and demanding a lot of flexibility in order to get it done.
July 16/700 words
One of my biggest failures has been my memory--not when it comes to faces, oh no. I've seen you once, I know that face, even if you're ten years older. But remembering that name? I once had to introduce members of my quilt group to a crowd of four hundred women. I'd sewn with these women for five years, chatted with them regularly. I knew them. Put me on the stage and give me a mic, though, and I got to Loris, and completely blanked. I told that audience I knew her, really I did, and a hissed whisper from one of my group relieved my absolute horror. My quilt group never let me forget my lapse. I'm also certain that the women laughing hysterically in the audience were post-menopausal, and their laughter was all about relief: it could easily have been them.
Now I have a novel. And by sheer cussedness, I've managed to get all my POV characters' names into long-term memory, but those other people? The ones I've named as they've passed through and moved on?
Yeah. Them. (And that includes some of the sinister baddies, mind you.)
I cannot for the life of me draw their names out of my brain with any regularity. It's like the path to grab those names has been mismarked, and I'm wandering in the woods of my brain searching searching searching for the little card file buried between the trees.
So last night, I hit my failure limit--I needed five or six names of walk-ons that I have used, but cannot access. I confessed to Kelly that it's time.
Time to make a goddamn cheat sheet, one with names, something about their character or job that describes them, and a warrior or master column.
Damn, I'm old.
I don't usually look at those long lists of characters in a fat fantasy, I jump in and begin reading, figuring I'll nail the family relationships down as I do so. And here I am compiling one.
Sucks to be me this morning.
Starting dress two this morning, and I'm going to work on it most of the day, so I can have tomorrow off.
It's our anniversary. Our... *counts on fingers* thirty-third. We haven't killed each other yet, although there've been some close calls. My goal is to get out of the house for a bit. Anywhere, maybe even the beach, provided it's not Zuma, and hopefully without the dogs.
So, lots of goals, little time. And a spreadsheet is in my future. That will most likely substitute in for my morning write, and I'll make up wordcount tonight, like I did yesterday.
Meanwhile, exercise and sewing are next on my hit list. Stand back! The coffee has finally kicked in and I'm going to explode into action.
*poof!*
Hrm. Okay, so maybe explode wasn't quite the word I wanted. The word I really want is locked in that card file with the names.
July 17/500 words
The eldest child is off to guide another client up Whitney. I am getting savvy in my old age and ask piercing questions like: Which route will you be taking?
This is because I discovered (due to said child leaving his FB page open and set to a friend's entry) that the Mountaineer's route still has ice and climbers are using ice axes to get to the peak at 14,000 ft.
Nope. Not that route. This route is easier (for the client) and the Mountaineer's route is rock all the way.
Still, it doesn't make me happy when he leaves .pdfs open on rope failure and lead rope failures in particular. I stopped reading when I realized I was going to be too well informed.
Dress two progresses. The Spousling's pain block failed to take, apparently, so I rather doubt we will be going far afield today. He's flat on his back in bed, and the pain meds are making him sleepy. So there will be more sewing, seeing that yesterday's block of time got eaten by sudden visits to bankers with papers needing a number and a signature for the middle child's mortgage.
Only a few words on the novel yesterday, but I am the proud possessor of a character cheat sheet. Thirty-four entries later, I began filling in a few of those NAME and OTHER stopgaps I've been using for the walk-ons by utilizing a few names I dropped in the opening scenes. I still have a few unnamed people in bit parts, but it helps to know what their position is and where they fall in the story. I was skimming, so it's very possible I missed a few and will discover them on a rewrite.
I can live with that. Really.
As usual, I hate last night's words. I may very well be surprised that they aren't as bad or as horrible as I currently am remembering.
I doubt that.
For one thing, Yesim, one of the villains, has shown up in the infirmary for no real good reason and blathered about helping Bashak in whatever way he can throughout the crisis.
I am highly suspicious and wonder what he really wants. Well, I know to some extent, because he's pocketed something while he was there, but he's not saying what or for what purpose, and I refuse to give him a POV scene so I can find out.
Damn villains.
And now, before it gets too hot, it's time to be dragged off on a walk by the dog (just who walks whom around here?) who is back to snoring peacefully at my feet. It's my revenge for him having woken me up early. I wait until he drops off and then, wham! Out the door we go.
He's barking in his sleep. And since I made the mistake of leaving my sandals and a binder on the spot he usually curls up, he is on top of those. It can't be too comfortable, so maybe he will thank me for waking him.
And if it's still cool enough, we'll go the full two miles and up a long hill that counts for a mountain in these parts.
I'll take lead leash, because by then, Harley will have exhausted some of that boundless energy.
July 19/1225 words
The goal is to write every day. Every day.
Well, I blew it on Friday--I didn't write all day, and the evening was interrupted by a lovely dinner out to celebrate. The Spousling's back pain was tolerable so we had a great time.
That meant I had to make up word count yesterday, morning words for Friday, evening words for Saturday, and I did so, even though it was punishment words.
All make-up words are punishment words for me, and I've allowed shame or general reluctance to prevent me from doing them in the past. Yesterday? Not so much focus on the punishment and a real emphasis on getting the words down.
As of yesterday, though, I've written as many words in four weeks that I wrote in six weeks of Clarion. When all I had to do was focus on writing for the most part, versus this summer's words when it's been about squeezing writing in. Success!
This scene last night was a bit easier to write in that when I asked myself, oh, what does this scene need to be about, my little inner editor smacking me upside the inside of the head and said, DUH. So yeah, two characters, one pushing for the son to quiz his mother about her completely non-believable acquiescence in that last strategy meeting, and the son backpedaling from it as fast as he can.
Of course, I don't know what the next scene after this will be. Or, no, I do. That same little voice just poked me for lying.
What I didn't accomplish is cleaning up the chapter I have to send to the Posse. I'll take care of that ASAP, which means a little now, a little as soon as I get home.
Which sucks, because it's late, but I didn't figure out it was my week until... um... last night. When I checked the schedule. D'oh.
But for the moment, my goal is to get my nose to stop running, dammit, and to wipe some counters. And then shower, sing at church, and basically run around like crazy for the next two hours.
Right. Off I go then.
July 20/425 words
Doubts assail me this morning. I wish I had a different talent in writing--while my prose is perfectly serviceable most of the time, I yearn for the gift of stringing words together like pearls and bits of curious shells and sea-polished glass.
I've adored Patricia A. McKillip's prose. I now absolutely adore Cathrynne M. Valente's. If you haven't been reading The Girl who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, you are missing a treat, and I suggest you remedy that right this second. I adore Amber's stuff even though she refuses to write me more. I envied one of my Clarion mate's ability to sculpt prose into glorious fictional landscapes--and I didn't stop envying her that ability, even when China told me that those kind of writers have other issues, because their words can turn into flat plains of verbiage, leaving its meaning beneath the surface and not enough seedlings or oaks thrusting up from the soil to catch the reader.
My words, not his, but I hope that conveys his meaning.
So, I don't envy people their sales--but I do crave their beautiful manipulation of the language.
I have moments, I suppose, but only in short fiction, and it's generated by the character.
And yes, I'm trying to keep focused on the novel, because my craving to write in a completely different style is oozing up around my ankles, headed for my hips.
There's too much to accomplish this morning to even spend serious contemplation time on it. I pick up the Slug from the airport at 3P, and before then, it's all about cleaning and sewing. Mostly cleaning. Because when I'm sewing, the house goes to hell.
(People in this house could make the same argument for writing, but I do avoid writing by cleaning. I avoid sewing by reading and writing. So.)
The novel is teaching me things, even as I write it. This week's lesson appears to be turning one character, overrun by another character's consciousness, into the narrator. Sort of. It's rather like having someone on your shoulder, monitoring your every action, while only commenting on the critical things to themselves.
That's not the best description of what's going on here, but it's the best I can come up with for now.
Also, I must lose the word 'moment' in my writing to signify the passage of time. I need to kill that habitual usage.
But I'm celebrating, because hooray for having the Slug around. I think I've got her through Wednesday morning, so I'm abandoning the second flower girl dress to focus on hers and the fittings. While I have her. It would be lovely to get hers finished before she runs off to camp, or barring that, at least to the point where I can mark her hem.
Two more weeks. Two more weeks of writing and wedding, and then I've got to move on to school. I've got kinders in one month minus two days, and far too much to do in terms of prep for the beginning.
Ick.
I think I'd rather focus on my limitations as a writer. I'll be over at the sink doing just that if you need me.
July 21/600 words
I'm having trouble getting moving this morning, and my inclination is to veg. I've already missed my silent window for writing--both kids are up. One's cooking and the other is at the dentist. Dressmaking starts when she returns.
(ETA: Dentist just called and told us it's $225 we'll have to shell out for the three major cavities she has that are almost in need of root canals, not to mention the prescription toothpaste she needs to protect another eight spots they're watching. Eesh. The excess medical stuff can just stop NOW.)
Yesterday's writing was tough. Writing a fight scene is all about visualization in slow motion for me. Some guy jabs, another responds. What I really want to know is why the hell I gave them spears. What was I thinking?
Oh, I wasn't. Duh.
On the other hand, snatching a curved blade from an unwary warrior isn't quite so feasible or easy to believe.
Still, fight scenes. I hate 'em. And I'm resisting Kelly's suggestion to just send the setup to Steve and let him write it for me. Although that scenario does have a TON going for it. I may succumb yet.
If the boys were little, I would just hand them wrapping paper tubes and let them go at it, while I observed stance and handgrips. Ah, well. The kids are a bit older now, and not so inclined to humor me. Darn.
Mostly, I'm a little down today--which I can't figure out. The Slug is home, safe and sound; the eldest returned from his Whitney climb unscarred, and I got through quite a bit of housework yesterday. But I'm not interested in exercising, the writing looms hard in my head, and sewing. Bleh.
I think I'll start with a shower, and hope it only gets better from there.
July 23/600 words
The Slug arrived home; my summer schedule flew right out the window. One child destroyed everything I'd done in terms of diligence. The only thing I can say I did consistently manage was writing, but only once yesterday, because I had to jump into sewing before she left.
Turns out her chest is wider round than the pattern actually gives, and I am eternally grateful for 5/8" seams that can be narrowed to 1/4" seams all around. At least this way there is fabric enough for a zipper. Otherwise, I would have been looking into eyelets and--seeing that it's the Slug--rope to string it together.
This morning is pretty well screwed because the dogs let me sleep in until 8A. I'm at zero in terms of today's accomplishments.
Writing progresses, and I'm amazed to discover that Kalim considers Mareet to be less than brave and outspoken, that Rakeen actually fears his mother, and that there is just as much backbiting among warriors as among the priesthood. Although the warriors tend to stab you in the chest when they're fed up, while the priesthood stabs you in the back, then buries the body and swears they not only have no idea what happened, but they weren't there and that isn't the knife they used, either.
While I'm a little frustrated with the characters (Why don't you get along? Any of you?!) and the situation with Rakeen and bad Mother, I also just realized that I needed Rakeen on the ship for a completely different reason than to speak to his mother.
Dammit. I've got to set that up between spear/sword fight and argument with his mother.
But now I know what I have to write next, and I've (moderately) succeeded in tightening the screws on Kalim in the last scene.
Yay.
I'm going back to the sewing mines right after, though, because the house is filled with flowing bits of netting and honeydew chiffon, and I am so done with it.
Everything will be finished (not including hems) by Friday next week. At the latest. This would actually go a lot faster if I could just manage more than two or three hours at the machines a day. I'll have to work on that.
July 24/800 words
My entire planning schedule for the days this month has been "before it gets too hot."
We've run the air conditioner the past three days, even though it's not been extremely hot. But the humidity has been up, and my complaint when sewing has been I'm sticking to the tissue paper pattern pieces or the fabric. If I don't walk before 9A, I won't, because it'll be too warm.
The heat arrives, and I can't think, let alone do something that requires my close attention.
Now add in the unwelcome flashes of heat that overwhelm me every few hours when I am sitting still and doing absolutely nothing to raise my body temperature. Even when I haven't had any coffee.
Oh, life is just a bowl of cherries around here. Hot ones.
The novel drags on. I'm starting to worry just how long this thing is going to take. I'm at 350 manuscript pages and thinking it will be double that by the time I get everyone to do everything I need. I've upped the pressure on Kalim and given him a deadline to regain control of his body and put that upstart extra soul back in its place. I don't have a similar deadline for Rakeen's issues, however, and Bashak is in a holding pattern until the Lady Fenris gets there to retrieve Mareet. Or at least unsuccessfully retrieve her. I think. I'm letting that one stew on the back burner of my right brain.
The rewrite is going to be all about deleting stuff to pare it down to a manageable level, while adding setting details.
Thinking about that just makes me tired.
And hot.
At least this morning feels a little cooler, and for a brief second, I thought we had ocean fog. (Which would mean a cooler day overall, yippee!) But I was wrong.
And now, to take advantage of the weather, I am off for a quick walk. I've already done my morning words (300, Kelly!) and the goal after that is sewsewsew some more.
July 26/1300 words
Week five is over and done, and I have another 3700 words to show for it. I'm annoyed with the emotional interactions of my characters, although I realized as I was halfway asleep last night that I was setting up one warrior character to die, which will resolve some of the concerns I had with ship stealing.
So progression is good even if I'm irritated. The writing itself has certainly been easier, which is always good, even if I'm uncertain I'm going to keep all of it. Which I'm not. There's no way to wrap this tale up in 25K or less short of killing everyone off and writing The End.
I'm so tempted.
And tempted still by writing software. The ideal program would be Scrivener, but I don't think the finances will allow the Mac purchase right away. I will continue to dream, therefore, and possibly make do with something else. Apparently there are many programs out there, and I just have to decide if any of them will do what I need. Which is, I think, organize the damn thing a bit better than me scratching my head and going, oh! That's what happens, writing it, and then getting stuck again.
I rarely get these notices that characters are going to die, so I can't count on it occurring again this novel.
The sewing has been slow--I went to put bodice to midriff section, only to discover they were not the same length. I will cut out the new midriff pieces next, adding a hefty seam allowance to each, and hoping like hell it works and that I have enough fabric. While the chiffon hasn't been as horrible as I feared (having nice machines really does help) the softness of the fabric keeps me from loving it. Not to mention that the midriff pieces are cut on diagonal, which means stretch. I'm going to go with the stretch this time and not use the non-woven interfacing to give those sections a little more body.
The interfacing seemed like a good idea at the time. Really.
In the meantime, I'm going to stitch the last flowergirl's bodice to skirt and let the dress hang before I try measuring the length on her. These circle skirts--you can't trust them.
And zippers. I've been avoiding those. Maybe I'll get one in tonight. Bleh.
As usual, lots to do, not enough time, and only a little inclination to do anything.
However, you will laugh with me (when I say 'laugh', I mean that hollow, oh, hell, what else can go wrong laughter) when I tell you that the children's plan for the dogs (all four, but apparently, the MIL's dog will be included in these plans, so FIVE. Yes, FIVE.) during the wedding/reception is to leave them all at our house. Together.
In case you have forgotten, this includes Zoey, whose supersekrit power is to shed her body weight every week, Harley, who believes that anything we drop is food and will devour garlic cloves and then breathe in your face to prove it, Baxter, able to leap five feet up and over furniture, Bait (so, right, her real name is something else. Go with me.) who is a fluffball of doom and hasn't quite made the link in her head about peeing outside, and now, last but not least, Odie, whose super-not-so-sekrit power is frenzied racing about the house at the speed of light.
Supposedly we will corral them all in the back yard, but given Harley's proclivities to break out of our yard when left outside alone, he will simply lead the pack as they race down the cul-de-sac to freedom.
Or he will teach them to ravage the tomatoes, and we will return home to a family room filled with tomato carcasses. (Think I'm kidding? Ha. We played the tomato keep away game twice today, and both episodes involved escaping into the house to chomp at them. On a beige rug. Just cleaned.)
Good times going on here, you betcha.
July 27/500 words
I overslept, thankfully due to the Spousling's desire to feed the annoying dog for me and the darkness of the room once drapes were closed. Because of that, I got a dollop of extra dreamtime, which had me attempting to get to a school I once taught in, run by a principal of another school, shortcuts through San Francisco involving car repairs, visits to people I don't know in order to borrow their washer and dryer (no idea on that one--it's not like I had a load of laundry in the car and I didn't get any cookies there, which was quite disappointing) and getting lost on a turn, and instead of retracing the steps in the car, we (no, I don't know who that was) decided to cross town on foot. So there was another school where I never taught, with the true principal from the school I was headed to, a hip-high flood, which necessitated waders on the part of my companion, and whose waders were a dog's sleeping bag, and once the waders were on, the water vanished, leaving what appeared to be ice...
And then I woke up.
How the hell do people actually come up with stories in their dreams?
Mine are always skewed cities, Alice-in-Wonderland nightmares of getting to school.
The only thing worse might have been a night in a sewing machine factory.
So I've been up for over an hour, and all I've accomplished is feeding the dog who hadn't eaten, breakfast, and I'm still working on my second cup of coffee.
Eesh.
On the other hand, I've been able to pawn off a chore I was dreading to the eldest child. This would be the one related to my scrawled note under my nose: Pick up Alix's teeth! (Not said, "Deliver to Boy Scout Council offices in Van Nuys.) Not her actual teeth, but the trays for soaking her teeth in, apparently, a line of toothpaste from the $15 tube.
If he takes the dogs with him to the beach, I will count myself so lucky that I will vacuum dog fur while they are gone.
Exercise is first, sewing is next, and if I break, I have to write. Or scrub the kitchen counters, since I didn't get to that yesterday.
Damn kitchen. Always needing attention. Makes me want to stop eating.
Whatever. Just so long as I don't have to traverse that sewing machine factory in my sleep.
July 28/500 words
In an effort to add even more stress to my life, because obviously I don't have enough, I spent yesterday morning sending short stories out.
I may fail at writing some most of the time, but I fail with a capital F on sending stuff out. These were my ninth and tenth submissions of the year. I sent one to a market I've tried before, the other to a new-to-me market, who believes present tense is usually pretentious. Of course both stories are in present tense. Oh well.
I don't quite know how to keep stories out. I usually throw two or three to the wind at a whack, hope they stay out for a good long time (or come rushing right back, none of this half-way-in-the-middle stuff) so I don't have to think about them. Depending on the rejection, I either let the comments sit in my brain for a week or two (or longer. This last one took a month.) and then try to figure out where to send them next.
I don't send much to the semi-pro markets, which, seeing that I was publisher of one is weird, and probably makes me a snob of some sort. Most of my submissions have migrated to markets that accept electronic subs, with only a couple of snail markets on my list.
Right now, those are closed, so yeah. Toss 'em out elsewhere and see if something sticks.
Writing, yes, but only once yesterday due to market research and tweaking the story I needed to tweak. Hopefully, I'll get to write twice today, but I'm already behind on my morning, and the list is phenomenally long.
Of course, the list now includes Make eldest child empty the trash compactor and spray.
This is, I hope, preventative. I found the first ant of the summer on my counter this morning. I am not anxious to have an influx about the time we have a wedding.
Then a conversation with the eldest child this morning opened my eyes.
Me: What's the stuff made with chickpeas?
EC: You mean garbanzo beans.
Me: Aren't they the same thing?
EC: Yeah, but chickpeas are a derogatory term.
Me: *blinkblink* Because of chick? *fails at imagining females involved in this* The chickens complained?
EC: No, because the term originally came about because a culture (my guess, white and in power) derided the food eaten by another culture (my guess, native and brown) as only fit for chickens.
Me: Ohhhhhh.
Well, I guess that's one term I won't be using ever again. And now I wonder just how many other food terms I use which are touched by prejudice of one form or another. But this one would so work in my novel if I have the warriors use the term in regards to the priesthood. I'm thinking about that or the possibility of making something up along those lines.
ETA:Or, as Chance points out, unlikely, since chickpeas derives from the Latin root cicer and has nothing to do with chickens.
ETA:And let's not even talk about the dead bug remains (some kind of larva, don't ask) sprinkling my kitchen floor's surface. I have no idea. Unless they signed a treaty with the ants to support their invasion of my kitchen. One if by counter, two if by floor.
*adds scrubbing the floor with bleach to the list*
July 29/525 words
It's 8A, I'm the only one up, and I'm freezing.
That's right. Freezing. We had an offshore breeze last night, the fog came in, and I'm sitting here in my shorts and t-shirt and goosebumps reveling in the fact that if I truly wanted to be warmer, I could put on a sweater or wrap up in an afghan.
A miracle at the end of July: I am cold.
Okay, so this probably won't last past 10A, but I'm savoring it just the same.
Middle child is headed south today to sign condo papers. We will see him for lunch. Another miracle because he is leaving camp in the middle of camp. And there were no visiting ants this morning--so that makes miracle number three.
The dresses progress. Slowly. I am fighting myself to sew every inch of the way. So the goal for today is to finish the damn flower girl dresses, excepting the hemlines. Just finish them. I avert my eyes every time I pass my sewing table and pretend I don't see the threads scattered in my working area and the snippets of fabric that slide from table to floor.
No writing this morning. At all. The sewing must be done immediately after I return from exercise.
It's been a while since I posted another from the WIP:
Lisen.
But what was she up to? Definitely guilty, for she hunched over her mixture and glanced toward the door repeatedly. When she lifted the pottery bowl, holding it carefully in both hands, he half-closed his eyes and peered through his lashes. Sure enough, she cast another sharp glance his way. Apparently satisfied, she slipped silently to Mareet's side, knelt in a smooth slide with her back to him, and set the bowl down with a single dulled clink.
When she slid an arm under Mareet's neck, pulling her close, and dipped the spoon, he jumped to his feet with a hiss and ran. Her startle at his touch and her mouth falling open in shock brought fleeting satisfaction. He squeezed her shoulder, pinching the harder bone through taut muscle. The spoonful of her concoction splattered across Mareet's chest, scattered droplets darkening the fabric. The spoon arced into the air, then clattered to a rest between them.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, and gave her a hard shake. "Tell me!"
And now, to work. Well, to exercise, but that's definitely work. And maybe, just maybe, I won't be so damn hot after my workout.
We can only hope.
July 30/525 words
Well, one dress is done. I'm working very very hard on the other, realizing that while I'd focused on how much I hate adding the netting to the inner lining on this one and dreading it, that what I should really have been dreading was sewing the side seams together while the chiffon slips away from the lining.
Okay, so basically I hate the whole thing. Although I've learned from the first dress, so on the second one I'm making alterations in the way I sew it together.
Another scene under my belt, which means it was very easy to get a little over 500 words in twenty minutes, because I knew where it was going. Today's writing is going to be a little harder. I have to figure out which POV character and what should happen. These scenes. I know where I have to end up overall, I know what the characters have to accomplish, overall, but I have no clue how to get them to the ending point. Plus, there've been a few changes. Letting the implanted soul take control of Kalim's body has given him insights into the warrior caste and minds. This will come in handy for the next book--not so much for this one. Mostly I'm making these scenes up on the fly, and hoping they will all tie together. Eventually.
The distractions are many around here. Today is dress, car into service, a dinner out, followed by theater tickets to Cats. I'm already focusing on my recital piece, "Selve Amiche" (that link gives you a taste of what it's supposed to sound like at the correct tempo) which will take place the Sunday before the wedding. Of course.
But because I was searching for a video of Vitas for my voice teacher--Vita's voice is amazing, really. He's a countertenor and his falsetto is gorgeous--you can see his Opera 2. Definitely a strange little story, and I feel sorrier for the fish at the end, but the imagery of being trapped is quite strong. Not to mention a good representation of creating the fantastic with a single, relatively small, what if. Some nudity with accordion involved, so possibly NSFW. What can I say? He's Latvian.
I've got bags of crayons and folders and all sorts of stuff littering the floor of my office because I'm not going in to school until next week, and I can't leave anything that will melt in the car. So between the office clutter and the sewing clutter, it's gotten difficult to maneuver around here.
There were coyotes on our hill last night about 2A, and since Harley immediately tore downstairs to challenge the pack, I had to fling myself out of bed to restrain him. Luckily, he did not attempt an end run up the hillside but barked furiously by the sliding door until I got there, and then stayed on the patio with me. He's not that large of a dog and would make a nice meal; I was happy to see he displayed some sense, but yeah. This is night mumblemumble I've woken up and not been able to go straight back to sleep. I'm running late this morning.
Since there are car issues, I'm driving the eldest to and from work this morning (his car got the new radiator installed yesterday, but now it needs a water pump), the Spousling's car will go in to the shop right after, and in between I am sewing.
I would just like to state for the record that I can be done with this any time now.
On the other hand, sewing the zipper in by hand is a lovely lovely finish. So worth the two hours to finish the bodice. Maybe. The question is: Will I have the patience to do two more just like it?
Stay tuned.
