Zoey lifts her head from her cushion. I hear the unspoken, “Oh. It’s you.” Her head flops down.
Harley races in, skitters to a stop as his brakes hit the wood flooring, then flees in the other direction. I’m certain I heard his “Oh noes!” before he turned.
“Harley!”
The echo of the dog flap is his response.
I open the slider and step out. “Harley!”
His eyes turn shifty as he assesses the distance between me and the door. His contraband is between his teeth and as I lunge, he dodges sideways and back through the door.
I use my command voice–the one that means mess with me if you dare–and die. He spins to face me, head low.
“Give. Me. That. Potato.”
Nothing doing.
I grab on. “Release. Release. Release. Release…”
On the next syllable he lets go, a doggy grin spreading across his jowls. He darts for the kitchen. I juggle the slippery potato and tear after him.
We wrestle for the bag of potatoes that he has chewed through to extract his initial prey. After a frenzied tustle, I win.
The unmolested potatoes go in the pantry where they belong, the partially gnawed and slimy potato hits the sink, and Harley is crushed.
If he could have whined, “But Moooooooooooooooooom!” he would have.
Luckily, for my sanity, he lacked the forethought to spirit extra potatoes out of the bag and bury them about the house, because he was too busy thinking, “SCORE!!” Alas, I am certain he will remember that small detail the next time the Eldest Child or Spousling set a bag of delicious potatoes upon the floor for his edification.
I will move into the left lane if the right lane is blocked, and avoid running over the chunk of car debris.
That got stuck under my chassis.
Which meant, I had to pull over and wait for the tow truck guy.
With the ax.
(Thankfully, I was only thirty-five minutes late and no damage other than to my timeline. Plus, I wasn’t the car missing that chunk of headlight, dangling on the overpass’ precipice, so that’s another thankful right there.)
Not one of my concerts! This time I was a member of the audience.
One thing I do appreciate around here are the music concerts with groups I’ve never heard before. Or, for that matter, heard of. Last night, it was Paradisa! and all I can say is that you people who live in Phoenix are damned lucky to have such a wonderful group in your midst.
For the record, Paradisa! is a cello, flute, and piano trio, all female, and very talented. While the classics are a part of their repertoire, they are certainly not bounded by the classics. Last night, they added a few jazz pieces to their program, along with a two pieces that fall into the world music category by Christopher Caliendo. (Never heard of him before either, but his Tristeza for these instruments was wonderful. His tango was good, too, but I adored the Tristeza.)
Listen.
And then go to Caliendo’s myspace site and listen to his Tristeza. (Different than last night’s rendition because he’s playing the guitar instead of having the piano–but the piano and cello on the base line really worked for me.)
2. Close the file and walk away. It usually takes three weeks to a month before I grab my subconscious by the collar and drag it back.
3. Scream some more.
4. Kick things.
5. Cast nasty aspersions on character. (For this novel in particular: Your mother sucks goat balls!)
6. Open empty file and stare.
7. Rip hair out.
8. Play Echo Bazaar.
8. Channel character and stare at empty file some more.
9. Repeat steps three through seven. Twice is good. Sometimes thrice is better.
10. Heave a sigh and start writing. Realize the character is denying she knows what she wants. Close file.
11. Reopen file. Force fingers to type and keep typing like this:
I don’t know what I want. I mean, I want Kalim back, and I want things to be the way they were before. I want to remember when I truly believed that the Masters had our welfare in mind and whatever decisions they made, they made out of goodness and the knowledge of what was best for us. And now… well I don’t believe they know anything other than what’s best for them.
All of them. Even Bashak. He’s sitting there cowering because he doesn’t want what happened to Kalim to happen to him.
Me? I’m not scared.
Well, not much. What will be, will be, you know? Although I’m not going to sit here and wait. No, I think it’ll be better if I make alternate plans. Like get to another monastery, long enough to get a tattoo of my own. I wouldn’t touch any here.
Although Master Dathri’s? Maybe. He seems mild enough, even though he has the most tattoos and power. But they’d never match up a man and a woman. That just isn’t done. Maybe in an emergency, although I bet if there were no other choice, they’d just patch it onto a first level instead. So what if they get another up the ladder?
What do I want? I want to get away from here. I can’t ever go back home, I know, but I want to leave. And the only way to do that is to take a tattoo—because only the firsts get to ever leave. The seconds are too valuable. I can’t take the Lady—they wouldn’t want to keep me around with her inside me. I’ve seen how relieved Bashak is after she leaves. He’s almost scared of her, and she doesn’t have any power over him at all. Why can’t he see that?
12. Pick through the litter of excuses and extract the little I got to nail down her character arc. What she wants, and she doesn’t quite get that she wants, is to abandon them all and leave. I think she’ll be looking for a way out of the monastery, and if that means by ship, then that’s just what she’ll get. At least she won’t be hanging around waiting for someone to rescue her.
ETA: #s 7 and 8 based on sartoria’s comment. D’oh.
ETA2: Ohmystarsandbunnies, I did name Bashak’s internal sidekick. Why do/did I not remember this?
I write a novel, I will do the character arcs first. No matter how shiny and tantalizing the idea is.
Because after the fact? Gah.
(Blessings on Kelly who gave me one possibility that makes sense and will work for me. Now if I only knew what the damn girl actually wanted, my fictional life would be so much easier.)
So yesterday ended up being all about attending another Eagle Court, and then slipping away during dinner to run to a concert–this one with organ, trumpet, harp, and flute. Mind you, not all at the same time. Three trumpet voluntaries (which music I adore. All of them. Just because.) and the harp and organ piece was amazing because I could hear the harp. The flute and organ pieces were yum, and there was Bach to end with. So yay! A lovely concert and well worth the hour and a half spent listening to glorious music.
Today? It was supposed to be all housework, but my car went in for tuneup work and tire rotations, and then we ordered the STICKLEY RECLINERS. O.O (I am going to have to love these forever. Trust me.)
And I got the perfect picture to hang in the bathroom above my tub. “Saturday Afternoon” by Ramona Youngquist. I cannot tell you how happy this makes me nor how perfectly–how absolutely perfectly!–this sets off the end of the room. If only my design choices were so perfect. Plus, I managed it by keeping colors in my head versus carrying the paint chip and tile and wood sample with me. So yay! I may never leave my bathroom again. (Did I tell you it is perfect? Ohmystarsandgarters, indeedy.)
But no progress on anything remotely resembling w.r.i.t.i.n.g. I guess that will be later. Like, tonight later. And I will have to show up online to make certain I do not shirk. Because you know, I could be in my bathroom, enjoying the peace.
So I may not be progressing as much as I’d like, but hey. I’m a happy girl.
ETA: I do not know why LJ won’t insert the image like it’s supposed to. *scowls*
Wiscon has been set in stone. I have my membership. I have my flight. Unfortunately, I won’t be arriving much before 9P on Thursday, but I will be there.
You had better show, too.
No words (which means a total of zip this month, and after such a good start in January. *is sad* I’ve been attempting to get Bashak’s character arc down pat, and the middle (no surprise there!) is murky. As in opaque. As in now what the hell do I do with this character besides toss him out the window?
I’m going to have to have a chat with him. From the Bashak at the end, where he is repentant, insecure, now that his worst fears have come true, and nearly died. I’m hoping his memories will give me a pointer, because geez. There’s so much to throw away otherwise. Including the bird. Which is fine. Kill the bird off. There won’t be so much as a feather left floating in the air.
You can tell how much this hurts me.
I’m opening that file again today and playing with it after I write Bashak’s little explanation of what he was thinking and feeling.
And maybe what’s-his-name’s too. If you’ve got a voice in your head arguing with you, it ought to be heard. (Oh, yes, and find him a name also. Because WHY NOT? Other than I am lazy and my avoidance level is high.)
School has been rough. Not so much for me personally, but for others around me. A few of us vanished into a local restaurant for margaritas yesterday. That helped. And on the way home, I realized that what I thought has been a pretty bad bout of allergies might actually be a cold. D’oh.
I was in bed by 8:30P. Yes, I’m a wuss. Not much better for the extra rest this morning, although I’m more awake. Which is a plus. Because now I can berate myself for being stupid.
So if only the throat would stop feeling like sandpaper, all would be good. And if Monday would go away, say, because Monday is a full-day meeting for me instead of being in the classroom. Being unable to just say no to people sucks some days. I’m not even going to mention the union squabbles regarding class size reduction or how many jobs it would save or how the people responsible for the union CAN’T COMPREHEND PERCENTAGES, because really. 2½ percent over three years isn’t a total of 7½ percent the third year. D’oh.
Ahem. *lowers her quills*
I guess I’ll be adding another nap into the equation. Maybe that will help the crankiness.
Miracle for the week: The Eldest Child has opened a Roth IRA. O.O
One of my college friends died last week, and the knowledge is now challenging my belief that I will live forever. Not to mention the unstated belief that it’ll be a quality life, at that.
It’s scary when your contemporaries disappear forever. And while I believe you have to be strong in order to survive the process of aging (ohmygod! Another white hair. A new wrinkle! And the good knee is now bad, wtf?) you have to be even stronger to take your vanishing shared landscape in stride.
I’ve been staring at things I take for granted. My spouse. My kids. The dogs. (ZOMG, Zoey pulled the ultimate disappearing act this morning, and I didn’t discover it until I returned home to find her on the front step.) Mom. Siblings. Best friends.
There’s no end to the potential empty holes in my life.
And I don’t know what to do about it other than to continue the daily struggle of living and loving. The most terrifying bit is not losing the struggle, but that someone I love will lose theirs. The scariest piece of aging is to be the last one standing.
(Yeah, let’s just gloss right over my fear of making a mistake–the thing which is holding me back in my solos. I’m combating that by making the mistake and singing ON, dammit. Today’s was messing up on the timing and coming in late. I’m really good at finding ways to screw up, too.)
Still working on character arcs. I think, just to work through my own personal fear of people I love dying, I’m going to add that to his burdens. It might not help me come to any conclusion, but I’ll be examining it via him, and that’s not such a bad way of working through it to gain some acceptance.
Because Kevin gone? He was only a year older.
Takeaway: Live and love like there’s no tomorrow and follow your dreams today.
February 21st, 2010 in
Fears | tags: Fears |
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Plus, I managed it by keeping colors in my head versus carrying the paint chip and tile and wood sample with me. So yay! I may never leave my bathroom again. (Did I tell you it is perfect? Ohmystarsandgarters, indeedy.)