Tag: banging my head against the wall


It’s 6:21A. Do you know where your dog is?

21
July

Why yes, yes I do.

Right beside me on the floor, peacefully dozing. He has done his job for the day.

He got me up at 5:42A.

No, he wasn’t hungry, although we went through the motions. The dog has developed a discriminating palate in his older years (as opposed to the early ones, where if something was on the floor or ground, it must be edible) and it is now difficult to convince him that his regular food is not poison.

So yeah, I caved and bought a new bag of food, which he will eat–as long as I pretend it’s a treat and scatter some on the floor. What to do with the old food in storage outside? Hmm.

I’m hoping it’s more about the antibiotics he’s on in regards to his appetite. I also wish dogs understood summer vacation.

He met his first rabbit in SB, for Bun needed care, too. They actually nosed and sniffed each other through the cage several times, which was amusing. When Harley would finally bark, Bun would dive for the other side of the hutch which was enclosed on three sides. The funniest thing was when Harley would search exterior of the hutch on that side for the bunny to reappear.

Who knew that rabbits did magic on their own?

Harley jumped up to the wall behind the hutch and above and made sure Bun had really truly disappeared. It was a trick, but how…?

Writing? Not so much. I’m slogging through this as though it’s the middle and not the beginning. Again. Wish I had a magic trick up my sleeve for making words appear on the page. Or, maybe, for gluing my butt in the chair and not avoiding the hard stuff.

I think I will try a G+ hangout this morning and see who, if anyone shows up to write.

ETA: So the Slug has found a new way to torture me on FB. Little announcements like these (while disguised as complaints about the length of her work day) do the trick nicely: “On the upside I made some serious OT, worked 3 fires, used drip torches to do a burnout, and got some great fire experience.”

This is not what a mom wants to hear. I do not know what drip torches are, but based on the fact that they apparently allow one to play with fire, I am not as thrilled as she is. All the years I spent teaching her to stay away from fire is wasted.

Where is that monsoon summer I requested for the Tacoma area?

2 comments » | the stories I could tell

Beating my head

22
June

There’s something so satisf amusi annoying as hell when you’ve done your due diligence and actually stuck your butt in a chair with the laptop open and all other distractions silenced–and the words stick in your craw.

Well. So be it. It’ll be a fight all summer, but I won’t back down.

So, 550 new words last night in an attempt to transition from one scene to the next with a POV switch. There were rewritten words there–mostly ones I dumped, but they count, right? Although I didn’t count them.

Meanwhile, one of my more sinister character’s lost his evil gleam when written from an outsider’s POV. There will be polishing until he regains his luster, although it’s also going to be a gradual growth into mean and evil, I think. These perception changes suck, because I’m having to spend time thinking about what I want to have happen rather than just write. And my mind boggles when faced with a plethora of choices.

More slogging on the horizon this afternoon and evening, but first a walk and then I’m off to beat the classroom into submission again. I’ll have to return on Friday, because I didn’t get that file sorted yesterday.

Ah, vacation. To put off things until tomorrow. Or even the next tomorrow, without fear of reprisal.

Comments Off on Beating my head | Clarion West write-a-thon, writing

And tonight is another

10
March

night all about report cards. *sigh*

Writing is looking easy by comparison.

Comments Off on And tonight is another | school, Uncategorized

Argggh

9
March

Report cards.

Couldn’t I just talk to my parents weekly?

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If I believed in fate,

1
February

I would have accepted mine as I sat in my car with the engine running.

For there was a pop. And then hissing.

And then CLOUDS OF STEAM.

I did what any reasonable person would do: I turned off the engine, using every swear word I know, and called the Spousling to come look under the hood, because no way in hell was I opening it after that eruption.

And after he’d made the determination that he could not easily repair the car on the spot, AAA did not come in the promised thirty minutes. It was closer to an hour. Are we surprised?

I made it home a little before 7P, only to run right out and retrieve the Spousling from the mechanic’s.

There was writing, but not much. Certainly not enough to count words. Definitely not enough for coherency.

At least the computer has not exploded.

Yet.

But I wouldn’t ask me to touch anything mechanical for a while, because, obviously, I am cursed.

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After all, there’s always tomorrow.

27
January

Still no voice. Or some, but by the end of the school day, I’m channeling Tennessee Ernie Ford. It’ll be interesting on Sunday doing solos if I’m still singing bass.

Today’s little pop upside the head was my car battery refusing to do its job. At 5P. When I wanted to go home.

No problem. I dialed AAA.

Cell phone decided to die right then and not reboot.

Fine. I borrowed a damn phone and called.

Someone would be there in an hour.

Fine. I gave them the school phone number, ran back inside (keeping the door open and checking every five minutes just in case) and when AAA called back forty minutes later to verify my address, she told me the truck would be there in fifteen minutes.

So I left the classroom and went to my car.

And missed the other call back by AAA. About thirty minutes into sitting in my car, I wondered… gee, had they called again?

Sure had.

Went back to the car and checked to see if the cell had decided to turn itself on again, which it had, and called AAA back. After a bit of miscommunication (really, AAA, Fillmore is not Sylmar, especially when I spell it out to you twice) she told me that whatever streets they had written down did not cross like I had claimed.

REALLY.

It’s awfully hard to miss an entire damn elementary school. (And no, AAA, that’s S-E-S-P-E, not S-E-S-T-E.)

But no problem! She’d put a rush on it, and the truck would be there in thirty minutes.

The only good news was that the truck was there in ten, got me jumped, and I drove the damn thing home. The Spousling will take care of installing the battery tomorrow. Along with looking at the right front tire that apparently decided to develop a slow leak. I had the AAA guy put air into while he was there.

And now, I am home, choir rehearsal is over, and I am going to bed. No writing, because I didn’t get home until 7P and writing was the last thing in my brain at that point.

Actually, I don’t have a brain.

It was eaten by school and the events of the day. Which means I should go to bed.

B-E-D just in case you can’t hear, AAA.

Comments Off on After all, there’s always tomorrow. | the stories I could tell

So how long have I been working on this novel?

24
January

First draft as a short story (failed short, mind you) was at Clarion in 2003.

So I’m starting draft #3 even as I’m working through the last third of draft #2. And after all this time, Mareet reveals that she’s from the enemy culture.

Who knew?

All it took was Kalim using her mother tongue whenever they wanted to speak secretly, and oh, yes, those warriors just happening to use the same language where Kalim could overhear them.

Because, d’oh, they’re spies for the warriors. And somehow Rakeen got killed because their plans failed.

Well. Glad to know that. Took the brain long enough.

Now if only Harley will not bark at oh-dark-3A, and I don’t have volcano go boom! dreams (Can SPQR Blues please come back? Please, oh, please?), and my nose unstuffs so I can breathe, maybe I will achieve additional enlightenment tomorrow.

More upsetting news from another talented friend who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. Her mastectomy’s later this week and she has three children under age ten. Positive thoughts and prayers for her recovery are truly appreciated.

And this can just stop now. It’s getting old. :(

Comments Off on So how long have I been working on this novel? | the stories I could tell

Bit by bit

18
January

So I whipped out KellyS’s crit that I didn’t manage to do before leaving for the weekend. (Well, whipped… it was an extremely slow whip. More of a drag, actually.)

And then I jumped on Trillian and met up with Amber and wrote. Less than an hour later, I’d rewritten four pages and begun the new twist. It’s far more active, I think, and throws Kalim into the middle of politics immediately, instead of waiting for things to take off after the ceremony.

I’m tired, but it’s done for tonight.

And then, even though I was tired, I tried knitting.

You know when sometimes things seem like a good idea and then reality proves you really, really wrong? Yeah. Just. like. that.

I tried knitting row 5 for the bazillionth time, and ended up two stitches short. They were there when I’d started. I swear.

So I ripped out all five rows, cast on AGAIN, and got through the first row before I realized those two missing stitches had turned up. Where they weren’t supposed to be.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.

Try again.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.

DAMN IT. For future reference, you need to know that when I am frustrated, I try harder. Stupid yarn won’t get the best of me. I can do this!

Row 1. Count. Recount. Whew. Good.

Row 2. Purl. YAY!

Row 3. Count. Recount. Oops. Carefully back up to mistake. Knit again. YAY!!!

Row 4: Purl. (Oh my god, I swear they only put in the purl rows so you don’t die.)

Row 5: Knit. Count. Knit. Count. Knitcountknitcountknitcount. Recount. I actually have the right enough of stitches for the edging. Really. SCORE!

Row 6: Purl. Set the needles down and walk away quickly. This is the furthest I’ve gone!

Yet. Or so the Slug claims.

And I’m only working the lace edging. I’ve haven’t even touched the main pattern section. But I’m telling you, I’m very glad it’s bedtime.

Comments Off on Bit by bit | the stories I could tell, writing

Update

23
December

State of my entryway: unchanged. Okay, fine. A few boxes slid to one side or another to make a trail through the clutter to the living room. Next step, creative stacking. As long as the rain doesn’t cause the hillside to slide, it’ll be good.

State of my bedroom: One additional mattress leaning against my chest of drawers. One table set up as a wrapping station. Guess what is more important than unpacking or moving boxes?

State of my lovely bathroom: A puddle of water, the size of a small pond, emerged yesterday. Fed by the running springs of the A/C duct and the torrents of rainwater cascading from the skies, this can only mean one thing–time for a new roof.

What I am going to do about all this: Run. Run away. Run far away to Pasadena and see my brother, mother, sister, niece, and assorted families for a few hours. And empathize with the brother and wife that they had a flooded closet and had to sort through all the family photos because the box, in addition to whatever else, got wet. Note to self: In times of torrentapocalyse, pack critical stuff in waterproof boxes. Preferably ones that float.

On the other hand, it’s all really green instead of dried yellow. And all it took was 8.5″ in the past two months–and over half of it in the last five days. Luckily we’re on a hill and most everything drains down from here.

Also, Zoey, the eldest’s Alaskan Husky, went in this morning for surgery for a parathyroid tumor. Think good thoughts.

Comments Off on Update | this and that

Oh, it’s that lovely time of year.

16
November

ReportCardsParentConferencesThanksgivingPumpkinPiesAndThenMoreBesides.

Not to mention, a week behind.

I’m putting on my pjs and watching Glee and DWTS.

(And in terms of novel, I had the weirdest dream this morning with mummified chickens in wicker baskets and partially chewed puckered livers and mummified I don’t want to knows in open carved balls, both found in underground tombs.

Yeah. It’s going in. Somehow. And if you know what it means, don’t tell me. I’m still on shuddering side of having one of those chickens in a basket fall open and scooping up the rotting pieces to try to stuff them back.)

Comments Off on Oh, it’s that lovely time of year. | the stories I could tell

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