New Stories

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Daily Words

700

Year's Words

45050

October 3/400 words

Up, but not running. The caffeine hasn't kicked in, and if I resort to Bendryl today again, it may never. Although I did fight off the drowsiness yesterday by a judicious application of a venti nonfat latte plus a shot.

That worked quite nicely until I got home from work at 4P and fell face-down into my pillow. For three and a half hours.

Well, it also helped that my climbing child survived the Cathedral Peak climb and the six-pitch Matthes Crest in Tuolumne with a client. I know because he posted to his Facebook account. (Far easier to check that than to wait for him to call me.) Now he just had to have survived his trip up Mt. Whitney yesterday.

So I did nothing worthwhile last night except to watch Firefly, Serenity. For the first time. Evar. Yeah. I'm old and behind the television times. I know it.

But oh, my god, I may very well have to buy the damn series, because wowza. I loved it.

What's not to love? A brave band of intrepid scavengers with a valuable cargo to dispose of being chased by the equivalent of big-bad government and raping, pillaging pirates.

Plus, I have to love the characters--a courtesan with a heart of gold, a minister, a 'good' guy with the possibility of being bought, the hardened captain, two innocents, one of whom is the ship mechanic, a female second, and her pilot husband. Did I miss anyone? Oh, yeah, the innocent's big doctor brother.

I was impressed with the visuals of the marketplace and the western aspects--and the ability of the three negotiators to leap onto horses and ride hellbent when the script called for it. The latter probably tipped the scales into fantasy, but what the heck. It was still good, and the pacing was super.

*cuts off the bleeting that you probably know all too well for yourself*

Gotta love Hulu. I'm going to catch up on the missed Dresden Files and we'll see what else.

On the writing front, yet another short story premise mugged me. I have a character, I have her talent, but I don't know why these mysterious others want either of them, or even how she changes in the process. I'm letting it simmer, and waiting until I know more.

I'm nearly to the point where I'm going to declare the crane story done and look for a reader or two to check it for me. And then we'll see. In all the illustrator research that I've been doing, I've crystallized my thoughts on illustrations: paper cuttings. It makes such sense to use those with a story about a paper-folded critter.

On the novel front, progress, slow but relatively steady. I told Kelly that I'm fed up with this rescue scene--it's taking forever. There will be so much to fix on the rewrite--distilling the plot points will be one of them. Because they spread all over and then proliferate in tendrils of growth I don't need or want. Ruthless pruning lies in my future.

But for the moment, I'm going to settle for another cup of coffee. No Benedryl yet because I haven't been outside. The Santa Anas aren't blowing this morning, topsoil and ash is not floating about looking for my nose, so I have hope. Lots of hope, and no absolute security.

October 4/0 words

Negative word count--I focused on Paper Crane again. That was after I tried to show up on Skype and Trillian simultaneously and failed at both. So, I worked on the short to make it shorter. Current wordkill is 1123, and while I feel I'm succeeding at unburying the story skeleton while keeping some of the lyricism, I wish I had more. At this point, I'm thinking I really need to get it to 1K. Each pass, I find spots where I can leave some detail out, figuring that an illustrator will have the ability to add that detail--even if it wasn't my original image. I have to remind myself that a picture book is a partnership.

As for writing another picture book again? I don't know. The stuff I tend to write seems more involved, but I'll need to read some of Rosemary Wells' books again to be certain.

Complete plots, the ones I've read, in a minimum of word flurries. I wish I could separate the words from the images as I read--even now, while I have the plots in my head, the images are side by side.

Actually, my latest short idea would make a good picture book if I made the plot line follow traditional fairy tale format--in this case, I'm thinking of The Gingerbread Man.

And kids, my classes in particular, seem to love the variations on traditional fairy tales. I've got a bunch on The Three Little Pigs, including my favorite--The Fourth Little Pig, which features the three little pigs' adventuresome sister. I've got another bunch for The Gingerbread Man, of which The Matzah Man is just the latest addition. And don't get me started on the takeoffs on The Three Bears. (Note: Somebody and the Three Blairs is my favorite.

So there is pondering in my future. Lots of it.

And more word kill. Plus, back to work on the novel tonight.

I slept a lot yesterday and Friday, so I'm back to feeling like myself. Which means there is lots and lots of cleaning today, because nothing got done yesterday. Sadly, I slept funny at some point this morning and my neck is a little off--not quite like the crooked-neck giraffe who used to be at the Santa Barbara Zoo, but near enough that I don't like turning my head. That's going to make driving fun this morning.

One thing I did manage to do was to watch a webcast of Gustavo Dudamel direct the LA Philharmonic Symphony at the Hollywood Bowl. The man is a delight to watch conduct--he's so expressive, and his hair adds just another layer of expressiveness. Click on his name to see what I mean, then imagine him facing you head on and the hair bouncing in rhythm.

He's only 28. What an amazing talent to watch develop in the upcoming years.

But the real reason I wanted to watch (for Dudamel was a definite bonus) was for the Master Chorale--one of my current choir directors (and a previous one) sang onstage last night, and it was much fun seeing her on the screen. They've both been members of the chorale for years.

I'd love to audition, but um... there's this little problem of no actual experience with the major choral works. Ah, well. The choir work I'm doing now will have to suffice.

I'll keep myself focused on the writing.

October 8/750 words

The week, she is zipping. And all I can say is thank heaven. Vacation is right around the corner... two more days. That's all.

I am not contemplating--in the slightest!--what awaits me when we return to full day classes. Let's just say it won't be pretty between negotiating the cafeteria and two more hours of school.

My little short that wants to be a kids' book has been pruned ruthlessly back to 1K. This go-around I lost 900 words; I don't remember what I lost the first pruning when I sent it to the editor at Scholastic. Some, though. It might have been close to 3K originally.

What I learned from this activity, though, is that if you rip the meat off the bones to get to the skeleton (story structure) it's a heck of a lot easier to see places where you set things up. Unconsciously or not.

I was pretty damned impressed with myself when I discovered that. Four years ago? Five? I wasn't consciously aware of what I was doing. But yeah, all the way.

I finally escaped that last novel scene. I've been puttering around with these 2K scenes all along, and then this one pops out of the blue and is closer to 6 or 7K. I was ready to break out the stabbity knives by the end and just randomly kill characters--kill them all!--just so I could search elsewhere.

Now I've swung back to Kalim who isn't where he should be and I may just cut the last scene entirely, or rewrite it to send him where he needs to be, because this is ridiculous to have him trapped in a cave when he needs to be on the ship.

I can so rewrite the last scene and make him retrace his steps or get lost in the sandstorm.

*rereads that last sentence*

Okay, lost it is!

I wish all my problems were so easily solved.

And Kelly, for your edification, Jaime told me I wrote fast last night--somewhere about 290 words in ten minutes. *g* Remember when it was only 100/10 minutes?

October 9/0 words

So the news of Obama's Nobel Peace Prize just spattered my monitor screen, and like the rest of the people I've read, my reaction is colored primarily by astonishment.

Oh, and that 'Does he deserve it?' thingy.

But that made me consider our nation's cultural emphasis on making good and making something of yourself--the belief that if you work and work hard, you will succeed--for all values of success.

As a culture, we value action. And if you think about it, most of what comes easily is valued less or devalued.

Don't make me flash Paris Hilton at you as an example.

And that devaluation doubles if it's a success that you a. don't see any value in yourself, and/or b. have no interest in ever attaining.

So Nobel Peace Prize for me? Nope. Not even on my radar. And it's always seemed to me that in order to earn it, you had to physically do something worthwhile. So has Obama?

Well, bringing hope to the world-wide community must count. The world celebrated his election just as much (perhaps more, considering the US's prior political designs on instilling peace through the use of force, in that who can they invade next uncertainty.) I don't think you can measure relief or hope. But it's out there. Definitely.

And, if that prize is seen as encouragement... well, then. I guess he deserves it. Certainly far more than me. Far more than any other political figure in US politics today.

But I'm still in that bemused state--because I've been indoctrinated in that belief you work for what you want and earn points/renown/salary based on that work.

Live and learn.

But if you have an idea of someone in the worldwide arena who 'deserved' it more, I'd love to know who that person is.

In other news, the first brand new reader to respond loved the tale--so it's a relief to know that I didn't break the story for her by losing half the word count. I'm still missing the voice, though, and am a little saddened yet.

October 10/0 words

First day of vacation, and of course, I am awakened at 6A by ravenous dogs.

So I roll over, ask the Spousling to feed them, whereupon he reminds me I am driving the eldest child to Encino to meet up with his ride to Long Beach and Santa Catalina.

Gone are the years where I used to be in charge.

EC: Mom, give me the keys. You're riding shotgun.

*commence internal screaming*

So, if driving with the child as a student driver twelve years ago didn't kill me, it shouldn't today, right?

Of course back then, I had control over whether he got to juggle his coffee cup, bagel, and iPhone as he zoomed down the freeway.

Me: Don't kill me.
EC: I'm not going to kill you. *takes hands off steering wheel to play with iPhone*
Me: *grimly hangs on to steering wheel*
EC:*through gritted teeth* I'm not going to kill you!
Me: When you have a hand free to steer, I'll let go. Also, I am preparing you for the day when I become grandma. You're going 80. She would have been screaming when you hit 55.
EC: She wouldn't have noticed because I would make her laugh.
Me: I think she might have noticed the hands-free steering. Even with the prednisone-enhanced double vision, two times zero hands is still zero.

More wrangling ensued, but I'll spare you. Suffice it to say, I finally wrestled control of the iPhone from him, and the print was not too small. I gained much satisfaction from his worries regarding sea sickness on the 38' sailboat they will travel on and the kayaking they will endure happily participate in.

Then I handed him over to his ride, (imagine a lovely neighborhood in Encino, whereupon this child leaps out of the car and bellows, "Dude! You got the drugs?" ) escaped before the cops arrived, and spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to find an onramp to the 101 heading north.

405N and south, no problem. 101S, no problem. 101N? They hid it. PROBLEM. But I did make it home and to my weekend surprise: we have a third dog, Sophie. (Who, mind you, is only a visitor.) Lovely animal, appears to be part lab, part boxer, torso reminiscent of a greyhound, and I don't quite know what she really is. But Zoey went alpha female on her, barricaded the entrance to the house with her prone body and wouldn't let her inside willingly. Barking and growling ensued, so it took several hours and Sophie sleeping in the same room with the Eldest Child to get Zoey to accept her. Now we've moved on to the studiously ignoring the interloper.

I can live with that. (Also, for the record, I had no clue we were dog-sitting this weekend. No one tells me anything.)

But as long as I don't have to play intermediary or dog protector, I am good. And for the moment, they are all quiet. Sophie is two years old and definitely past the puppy stage. Thank god.

And none of them drive, so that's bonus points right there.

October 11/0 words

So that long list I had yesterday? It's still there. Every list item was supplanted by Teh Nap.

Which means this morning is all about less than two hours of catching up before I leave.

Yeah, we know that's not happening.

What I did accomplish was a little brainstorming on a short story that's been calling to me this week. I've found the theme: a destructive process creates life. I searched my dream book for stuff on hands, fingers, and scissors for symbolism. I've even got a title: Ephemera. The original character I had in mind has morphed from girlchild to full-grown (and aged) female. I want to throw in at least one eternal, and contrast the human lifespan against it.

What I don't have is a story. Dammit.

Or a character, really. I know what this one does, but not the why or the how of it.

And that short story is getting on my nerves. It's in my brain, bumping the novel aside, going lalalala with its fingers in its ears. Wouldn't be so bad if it would just tell me what it's about, so I could write it out of my head.

Maybe in the car today. Maybe it'll forget to keep its mouth closed.

This weekend's been, thus far, quiet, even with the extra dog. Zoey's reluctantly accepted Sophie--although every so often she reasserts herself, so the end result is that Sophie gives her a wide berth and is very tentative.

They'll both be relieved when Sophie leaves tomorrow night.

Finally watched the third episode of Firefly. The show does not disappoint. I was happily surprised to discover how the doctor and his sister escape being discovered when the ship is being searched. The entire thing was nicely set up.

The Spousling, as soon as it finished, turned to me and asked, "Wanna watch another?"

I turned him down. I'm going to make these episodes last, and delay is a big part of gratification, you know, kinda' like sex?

October 14/100 words

So I take voice lessons, and have for nearly four years now. Finally--finally!--I can hear the progress. With my teacher's help, I have deconstructed the way I sang for the first 40+ years of my life and completely reconstructed it.

Undoing years of reinforcing the wrong things takes time. Lots of time. But it's the light at the end of the tunnel for me--not that I'm going to stop my lessons when I get to some mythical point of endtime, but hey. I just wanted to say a year ago? Nothing like this year, okay?

But Paul, my teacher, has several more students than just me, and these kids (if I have a child approximately your age, you are a kid) are amazing.

Meet Jen. (You will have to forgive the backlighting--this video was recorded at our recital, and the setup of the house does not lend itself to clarity if you must film directly into the light source.)

Some of his prior students are already performing on Broadway, and I can't help but believe that Jen will be there someday herself.

Also, I love this song. Absolutely.

No writing while I was gone, but I did do some thinking and research. I found another batch of Japanese artists that I dearly love and want to acquire--in the same way I want to acquire Kay Nielsen's art. Which means never, because I won't be able to afford it, but I can dream, can't I?

Woodblocks. OMG.

Back in the 30's, there was a master woodblock artist--Kawase Hasui. He produced work like this and this and this and this. (Treat yourself and click on one of those. You won't regret it.)

Now woodblock prints as an art require carving the blocks first. By hand. And then printing each block in a particular color in succession. The level of detail to make these prints in astonishing.

But what was even more impressive to my eye was the connection from these prints to the works of Kay Nielsen, Mucha, Goble, Bilibin, and Dulac. Art from one part of the world appears to have informed and influenced another--long before the transfer of information was nigh-instantaneous.

So I'm pondering that this morning, along with how words make connections between people.

October 15/50 words

I spent most of last night irritated with myself. Why?

I began a story too soon. The short that's been nibbling at my brain, to be exact. All I can believe is it nibbled so much that I completely lost it.

Well, that, in conjunction with my deluded belief that four 3x3 scribbled-front-and-back pages of notes were all I required to get the story set up.

Yeah, no.

I do have the opening scene, some of the middle, and the ending. I know I want the POV character to transform from casual interloper and thief to friend, and thereby nail a loss. I know memory plays a large part in this tale. I know all this stuff. I actually have the protag's character settling into my head--enough that I know how she'll respond to the mean ways I'm going to torture her. (Well, torture. Really, I'm going to give her exactly what she wants and then she's going to regret it. Big time.)

What I don't have is setting. No sense of where or when. And how can I get this tale to stand out if I don't have those elements?

Simple answer: I can't. Hell, it's not even standing out in my own brain.

So it's going back in the hard drive while I wait and prod my storyrat-nibbled brain for details.

I hate this.

So, to distract myself from my plight, I went in search of another performance from our recital. This is Katie, singing my absolute favorite song from this particular musical.

Bless YouTube. I got chills from this one all over again.

October 16/50 words

Yesterday vanished in a puff of research.

And not even for a story. No, it was research deemed imperative by Verizon's decision to switch ports for outgoing mail for all subscribers who use third-party mail addresses and email clients not web-based.

Yeah, I couldn't send mail.

Hours later... and I do mean hours--we're talking more than five I spent staring at my screen--I finally figured out the solution: Set the damn new personality's incoming email to my husband's account at Verizon, in addition to throwing that info into the outgoing mail.

Voilá! Success. And so unexpected that I sent a second email to myself because I didn't believe it had worked. I had gotten that. many. error messages along the way. Such a waste of a perfectly good day, too. Not to mention that I now have Teh Hate for Verizon and the inefficient way they enacted the change. Not everyone relies on webmail. Hell, not everyone uses Outlook.

And I was not resigning myself to only utilizing the gmail addy based on some large unthinking company's decision to make it damn nigh impossible for anyone to use anything else and their Oh, and that email addy of yours, btw? Yeah. You don't need it, luser cavalier attitude.

I harbor only a little resentment.

Okay, a lot. And I'm still annoyed. And now at the fact that I had to use my husband's information to get my own email to work properly. Every time I open Eudora, there he is. (It's nothing about the Spousling, but my email and email client are mine. How dare you make my usage contingent on my husband because his name's on the billing. Stupid, in some ways, but there you go.)

So, another 50 words on the short, which was mostly filling in the vague imagery and getting it to coalesce in my brain. Picture my brain filled with foggy shades and you'd be just about right.

Some insights happened along the way. The old woman, frex, is a character from another unfinished short, from another time period. I'm working on that, but she's older and slower than she was originally. The POV character is of mixed parentage, and since I'm not coming right out and saying that, I've got to convey it using her feathers when she's in magpie form.

Don't know how successful that's going to be, but I'm going to make the attempt.

But the bottom line is that it needs even more concreteness than I've got even now. I'll have to hammer that fog down with a few more nails.

Shades of Bear Shadow where he nails his shadow to the ground. (Or no! It's been republished under a new title--Moonbear's Shadow. Wow. Shows how long I had the original book--it was published in '85.)

Geesh, I'm old. And still ticked. I should drape warning flags all over, like Go On, Touch Me! and then in fine print, Walking High Tension Wires for Fifty-mumble Years.

October 17/550 words

It's too early for even the dogs--they've eaten and gone back to bed. What is wrong with this picture?

Of course I've had coffee. Don't annoy me with details.

Non-vacation approaches. I am gearing myself up for full-day kinder with apprehension and praying I survive this week. I see lots of early bedtimes in my future, so I am getting writing done now.

I managed to work on both projects--long and short--yesterday, with the majority of words going to the short. Still got 200 on the novel, but that's mostly because I have to bail my character out of this little problem so he can rescue his chums and himself.

I'm currently debating on his role as apparent traitor and who else, if anyone, he drags in to help him.

There are enough loose threads in this novel to unravel the entire thing like a cartoon sweater. I am so not going to appreciate the rewrite this time around. Although the difference between this novel and the last is that I don't mind thinking of the rewrite and I also have a clue as to how I will accomplish said rewrite.

No small measure of that is due to the help of the Posse. Thank heavens for my beacons of hope shining through the murk.

I derived much amusement from my research on possums last night. (Why this shapeshifter chose a possum for her nefarious activity is beyond me, and you'd think I know. Somehow.) There really should be more straightforward lying on the internets, and lies generated by not-politicians. Have an example:

Small, tree-dwelling amphibious mammals directly related to the savage mountain cats of Antarctica, Possums have wreaked terror upon mankind since their inadvertent discovery in Australia in 74,013 B.C. by nomadic Aborigines migrating from S.E. Asia. Unfortunately, the Easter bunny cut off the Aborigines' escape route back into Asia, and a tenuous relationship has existed between man and possum ever since.[...]

Designed for night, speed, stealth, and death, the possum is truly a beast of which to be most afraid. If you have a possum DO NOT LET IT EAT PIE!! Let it eat cheese instead!

Poor possums. Searching in vain for pie and having to make do with human victims instead.

I recommend reading the methods possums use to kill including this one, obviously generated by someone with too much time on his/her hands and an unhealthy interest in possums: "Method 6: possums can kill you by squirting floods of yogurt at you from their ears."

If that doesn't make you think twice about leaving the house at night, I don't know what will.

Sadly, my shapeshifter will not be squirting yogurt in this tale. I will have to make do.

October 18/700 words

I'm asking why of my characters these days, not so much of the what.

The what shows up as I write--what they want, what they do, what they see and know, yet their opening motivations remain opaque.

This short, for example, my shapeshifter wants a very special pair of embroidery scissors and is trying her utmost to get them--but why?

No freaking clue. I can't even tell if this is by her own choice or if she's following through on another's demands. I'm just hoping I find out at some point, because you know, that would be... nice.

Motivation is everything--and I'd like to know whether I should be rooting for her to succeed or not. I mean, she's going to get it in the end--just not the way she expects.

The other annoying thing is that, as much as I like it, this tale's turning out to be semi-humorous. Not what I initially foresaw, and certainly not what I expected. A humorous tragedy kind of lacks impact.

Oh, well. I'm just hoping that I can write a better end for it than a 'be careful what you wish for' takeaway.

Still, I love my little shapeshifter, even if she doesn't think through her actions like she should, and honestly, if you're going to shapeshift into animals, shouldn't you know more about the weaknesses of said animal form before you shift rather than discovering them after the fact?

Yeah, oops, and live and learn. That's where the humor steps in, I suppose.

But I could use her initial motivation. Srsly. And I do wish she would cough that hairball of information up. Somewhere. Preferably on the page so I don't have to mount an expedition into the odd corners of my brain.

October 21/750 words

Well, it sounded like a good idea, and my tummy seconded it. Loudly. So I found a recipe for chocolate chips scones and threw it together.

Okay, so 'threw' suggests an ease that I didn't have. Flour, sugar? Check. Egg, milk? Check. Vanilla... vanilla? Where are you, little vanilla?

Mad scrambling ensued as I turned out the pantry. No vanilla. But I did have chocolate (dried, why are we keeping this bottle for posterity?), maple, and lemon. Maple, it is.

The lid was stuck.

I finally get it unstuck with copious amounts of hot water and throw it in. Mix, plop on cookie sheet, toss in oven. Return to read the recipe one last time.

Self-rising flour. Oops. I did not add the salt and baking soda to compensate.

This morning I will have chocolate chip maple lumps. Damn. Don't let me cook before my caffeine injections.

Oh, well, breakfast is breakfast and I need something to face the hordes. Full day was spectacularly easy yesterday--including our first trip to the cafeteria en masse and the subsequent debacle of no one to supervise in the playground. So much so, I kept waiting to fall apart. Which I did about 8P as I suspected. However, I had DWTS to watch, so I kept my eyes open until 10P. Didn't do anything worthwhile, but okay. First day. We'll see how the rest of the week goes, though.

Since I'm painting hands and feet for our skeletons today, I'm sure today won't be as simple.

ETA: Chocolate chip maple lumps aren't nearly as bad as you'd think. Except for the part where I'm burning my tongue.

ETA 2: And except for the part that when they hit my stomach, they sit there like lumps. Shipwrecked lumps.

October 24/0 words

It rained a week ago--bunches, so all our blackened landscape is now tinged with green. If that isn't a right-in-your-face, no-symbolic-about-it rebirth, I don't know what is. The most amazing part of it is the fact that it happens practically overnight. I'm particularly grateful because we'll have fewer (or not quite as severe) mud slides if there's a mat of dead grass holding the hills together once the rains really hit.

But for now? Spring green, a refreshing change from the gold of summer.

Wish I could say the novel was experiencing a rebirth, but I can't. I'm avoiding staring into it for too long, because I can see all the plot tendrils tentacles snaking out and going nowhere, because hey! New, shiny plot tentacle! Let's chase that one!

The novel ADD is well and thriving, when it's not masquerading as Cthulu.

I do tell myself that I'll be able to chop and prune and, let's face it, burn and pillage, the damn thing into shape on a rewrite, but since I'm not sure which leads will be leaving and which staying--well, there's this stew bubbling out of my head most of the time.

I may have to--gasp!--write an outline.

Not a big one. Not really. Just for me to pick through the chaff. Trailblazing in a way.

At least I'll have a lot of choices.

But I'm even considering cutting the caravan from this novel and saving it for another--because by adding the ships, I now have two means of rescue. Unless I can get these two to twine--if I even need them to wrap together.

Lots of decisions, no time. I fell into bed early last night, trying to recover from the week. One of our staff had swine flu last week--this week she's got pneumonia, and one way I can blunt illness for myself is to stay on top of my sleep.

Keeping my hands clean? Yeah, not so much. We're talking kinders. They're a walking feast of germs.

The directed draw/writing I've been doing with my kids is paying off. One of my little ones announced she was going to use the letter magnets to make a sentence and strung a whole bunch of letters together. When I asked what she wanted to write, she said, "The mom is cooking.", counted the words, got The by herself, started mom correctly and had help for the rest, spelled is on her own, and cooking became 'cen' with me saying the word slowly.

I have high expectations and what it will mean to the first grade teachers. My class this year looks forward to writing--and while a good chunk of that is the directed draw and the stamp they get for their attempt--oh, who the heck am I kidding? It's all about those two things.

What I will have, though, are some artists and kids who can wield a pencil.

Our first independent write will be this week. I'm looking forward to see what the kids come up with.

But today is about catching up on the cleaning. Then we have theater tickets to Guys and Dolls and I'm looking forward to seeing my voice teacher playing in the lobby (they've staged a casino there) and two of his voice students performing. This is regional theater and gaining recognition in the Ovation awards department. Jen, one of the young singers I linked to on YouTube, will be in this one--marching with a baritone, which is about half her size. Este, another student who played Mungojerrie in CATS, will also be in this one.

Lots to look forward to, although I'm kind of horrified that there's so much to do before Thursday when I leave for San Jose.

October 25/0 words

Things I never thought I'd say: Harley! Take your tomato outside!

(He can pick them off the Sweet 100 hedge-in-a-pot if they're low enough.)

Things the novel isn't telling me, reprise: Names. Most of them. I've gotten so if I can't remember/think of one I just write NAME to make it easier to find later. We won't go into the plotty things the novel isn't telling me because they're all over the place and it would take most of the day.

Things the short story isn't telling me: Why I torture my characters with potential embarrassment as in the snippet below--well, except that it amuses me.

She remembered her original size and shape and morphed, then yanked her clothing out. The breeze raised goosebumps as did the dog's yelps, and she nearly lost her balance trying to get her foot into her jeans. The abandoned underwear she tucked back in the kayak, and she wrenched the plaid shirt on, cursing the buttons. The dog arrived while she fumbled, then sniffed-ran in eager circles.

When the dog's owner arrived, she still had two buttons to go.

Okay, so that quote doesn't tell it all--the intruding character waits until he's leaving and then coughs up the fashion savvy that her shirt buttons don't mesh with the correct buttonholes.

That probably doesn't amuse anyone else but me, but I was nice--really! I could have had her completely lose her balance and fall into the marsh with a bare butt and jeans tangled about her legs. The possibility is still there.

Things my nose is telling me that I'm ignoring: Tickly scratchy throat does not mean a cold. Does not. Does not.

Things I would enjoy seeing again except for the ticket price: Guys and Dolls. Who knew? But the premise of Adelaide--that she'd been engaged for fourteen years to the same guy was pretty damn funny, and her big song--Adelaide's Lament--hysterical. Her comedic timing was spot on, and my second favorite song was the duet sung by the two female leads, "Marry the Man." Again, quite funny. Now I could just get the music to "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat" out of my head....

Things I really, really want to do: Go back to bed.

Well, that's a fantasy novel in itself.