Well, my mother-in-law gave us her old patio furniture, which is now our new patio furniture, and I have discovered the joys of wireless and a good battery and am writing this al fresco from our backyard.
I used to think the height of civilization was a hot bath and a long book. I may have to revise this assessment. The height of civilization may very well be laptop and lounge chair--internet under the stars, if the stars weren't veiled.
The hammock is in a sad heap, taken down due to high winds a few days ago, but it will be back soon. But that's landscape, and there's not much landscape right now. It's dark. The amber gleam of our bug-ducking patio light is mostly ambient, reminding me of my days in the darkroom, when you'd turn on the safe light and wonder why you still felt blind.
I've not needed to light the citronella candle just yet; I sense a mosquito hawk noise-maker in my future as well... And bat-houses. Anything to reduce the mosquito threat.
I lied about landscape. I can see the silhouette of the maple tree against the sky, the tree that once thwarted my efforts to photograph starlight. All I ever captured was the moon, and too much of that. Should have looked up how to do that before taking myself off to the backyard and applying theories I read about when I was eight. "If I just hold the shutter open long enough..."
The most important thing, of course, is that I can hear frogs. Spring peepers everywhere in the distance. I thought the creek was too far away, and I know they aren't in our dinky excuse for an ornamental pond, so where are these frogs spawning? My growing-up-in house had a pond in visual distance, so I knew where the frogs spawned, where the sounds originated. Not so, here.
Of course, when I was growing up, I would have tramped through every one of these back yards, looking in every nook and cranny. I'd know about every culvert and swampy spot. I'd know where the frogs are.
I miss being a kid for that reason, and that reason alone.
I spent most of the evening (I was nominally gaming, but my character is seriously wounded) reading over Midsummer Night and trying to remember where I'd left off. Am resisting overwhelming urge to rewrite from the ground up. Thought about replotting from the ground up, too, but figured I needed the play in front of me to do that, at the very least.
It's an idea, at the very least. Right now, there's too much beginning and not enough middle or end.
My reading list for writing the Regencies is growing longer every day... slightly intimidating. Maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow.
We requested that Mary Lou join us last night, and it was about as productive as you'd expect with five of us. And as loud. And as highly inappropriate, conversation-wise. What does it say, after all, when Eric is the best behaved of us?
I did transcribe most of my floating notes into my novel-specific notebook for By Right of Conquest. Then, in what is becoming my usual method for dealing with such things, I glared at it.
Well, sort of. It knows I glared, and so do I.
It knows I blinked, too. I'm not mature enough as a writer to handle that novel yet, and we both know it.
Yes. What is it with my recent trend to anthropomorphize my work? I apologize. Sort of.
In any case, the next novel will definitely be one, or both of the Regencies. Then the rest of the Brooks. The last Brook should be fairly sophisticated, which is a start. Perhaps after that I could start BRC, or maybe I need to write something I care less about. I've been living mentally in Heroes of the Cold Island of late, and today especially so. Must be that Brotherhood of the Wolf movie. I stopped reading the subtitles at some point, which is a pretty good sign. For my French, anyway.
Well, in spite of no answer to my query or my initial submission, I've now deduced that my story was rejected from a certain anthology because someone who did receive a response also posted the TOC. So, I can pull that story out of the remission it's been hiding in and move on.
Now, just to find it a market.
Did send off two stories today, small triumph, and now there's only this one floating around and looking miserable. "Doesn't anyone like me?" it asks. "I still like you," I say. But I'm not sure I can find it a home.
I'm not going to tell it that yet, though.
Oooh... I did edit "Sun's East" last night and sent it off today. Sing the praises, the slump is over.
And I'm writing to you live from my network-enabled lap-top. Wireless is the best. The best, I tell you! And I have unfettered joy about it. I swear.
Unfortunately, this is where we may see a marked decrease in productivity. (sigh)
Number one Google search this month appears to be "librarian romance." Hm. I feel like I should write one, instead of just reading them.
Congrats to Lisa on the latest publish. Other slumps are also at an end, I can feel it.
Hmph. I have almost nothing to update you all on. I've picked, I've prodded, I've been fraught and I've stomped my feet a lot. But I've mostly not written, nor edited, nor anything.
Did get a rejection this week ("Ill-boded Blade" came back from SH with almost no information. If I didn't know it was a good story, I'd start doubting it. Though part of me wonders if it might not be better with a little "What's that blood on your sword, Edward?" bit).
Eyep. One rejection. (Twiddles thumbs. Looks at mailbox out of corner of eyes.)
Goals, goals, goals.
Goals this week:
query for: "June Mothers" and "Touch"
edit: "Sun's East" & "Star & Galaxy"
write: "Majuscule" and Midsummer
submit: "Sun's East," "Her Kaleido" and "Star & Galaxy"
consider: reoutlining Midsummer
research reading: Glastonbury Abbey and The Twelfth-Century Renaissance for "Majuscule"; the journals of Clair Clairmont for Regency extravaganza
pleasure reading: finish Ash
Recent flights of fancy:
-could Spellbinder stories be YA?
-could the Anne Bronte thing be 3 or 4 books (one for each sister/sibling)?
-could either of the two Regencies be turned serial?
Oh, yes, and, as promised (I think), a look at some extended goals:
-each month, write one new short and rewrite one short to submission stage
-finish Midsummer by June 15
-rewrite Brook by July 30; acquire more beta readers for same
-Brook out the door by August 30
-Sept-Nov: Brook II and R&R
-Dec: rewrite Midsummer
-Jan-Feb 2005
get Midsummer outthadoor
begin Brook III
-Mar-June
finish R&R
finish Brook III
begin BRC
-Jun-Jul
begin Brook IV
-Aug-Sept
rewrite Brooks I-IV
outthadoor!
-Oct
rewrite R&R
-Nov-Dec
finish BRC
If it comes even close to that in the end, I'll be shocked. This is my revised thought; my earlier thought had me finishing all of this in one year. (You may well laugh. Julie certainly did. And then patted me and offered me hugs and headache medicine after a whap with the Reality 2 by 4. Not that she'll find this more realistic.)
Why the urgency? I don't know. The two prevailing theories are: that finally, after minimal validation of my lifelong ambitions I'm unwilling to remain minimally validated; or, that I've got the writerly equivalent of the biological clock going on here.
Ultimately,
A Garden in the Rain by Lynn Kurland (22)
I was browsing the discarded Pronto (our academic library's "fun" books) shelves and saw this one--a romance set in Scotland, that appeared tasteful and well-bred from the cover art and the title and so forth.
"Lynn Kurland, Lynn Kurland..." I thought to myself. "Is that a name I remember?" It wasn't, until I looked through the book log--yes, I'd read something by her last year, and had enjoyed it. So, it all boded well: just back from honeymoon in Scotland, and no bad associations with the name.
Other than being frustrated with the lack of proactiveness in both main characters, it was very good--delightful. I've had two experiences with time-travel romances: fantastic (Diana Gabaldon) and horrifying (I'll be kind and not name names). While this wasn't Gabaldon, it established in my mental landscape a pleasant upper middle-class of time travel romance.
I think I'll be keeping this one.
(In other news, I got first dibs on the new Suzanne Enoch, so I feel that I'm finally getting a sense of the good romance genre writers.)
Neither wrote yesterday nor wrote here. My writing cadre says it's ok, jet-lag and all that. But mostly I'm just disappointed in myself. Nevertheless, I shall carry on.
Also, looks like the poems are up at Dark Moon Rising.
While I was gone, nolove (or rejections, as they are known colloquially) from OnSpec, Strange Horizons and one other place I'm forgetting.
Back to business as usual, I guess. Having a hard time figuring out what I should be concentrating on, though. I made some goals in another country, but are they going to hold water? What do I work on first, anyway?
I just looked over at the pile of papers on the floor--several copies of my novel, tossed together like an untasty salad. I remember doing that. Sorta.
Crosstitch by Diana Gabaldon (19) (re-read)
I read this about five years ago for the first time (as Outlander, which is about 5 paragraphs longer), and loved it then. I love it now, even, but I've developed a more critical eye in the last five years (duh) and could find moments in the story where things fell off-kilter, just a smidge, and so forth.
But, I think what I determined is that it's a damn good thing I'm not an editor, because I don't know if I'd ever think anything was good enough anymore. And I know that 5 years ago I thought this book was fabulous. I still think it's good (really good), but... I'm all picky now.
I still appreciate this book, however, and how! The pacing is great, for one thing, and the willingness to totally abuse the main characters is impressive. I think Gabaldon's finest point is tenacity; she doesn't beat anything to death, but she doesn't let things pass. She investigates every corner and every emotion...
Which brings me to my next book.
Fires of the Faithful and Turning the Storm by Naomi Kritzer (20 & 21)
This should have been about four more books, I think. Ok, maybe not. Maybe reading these on the heels of Gabaldon's work is what made me think, "Ok, why didn't she take that further?" But actually... yeah, a lot of the things I thought she should have taken further. Deeper.
And yet it all worked. It carried me along, speedily, anxiously, and the emotions were there, if occasionally glossed over.
Well, Mer is back in the US, and I am a day late with my last guest entry. I will spare you my ramblings on the one over-riding topic in my life these days (the house hunt) and dazzle you with random bits of my evening so that you will be even happier that Mer will be retaking control of her journal.
Michigan finally decided to play along with the fact that it's, oh, spring, and I am happily sitting here in a tank top, watching the cats fight over the back of the couch by the doorwall, and breathing in the night air before the neighbors start smoking and I have to close everything up.
I am watching a scintillating cinematic offering on SciFi - "Deep Core." From the previews I had deemed it to be a direct rip-off of "The Core," but now that I see wil Wheaton's character doing body shots off a very scantily clad woman, I can totally see how it's a very different movie. Even with whole drilling to the core of the Earth in an experimental device to save the planet because someone decided using science for evil would be a good idea and now man is at risk from his own hubris.
Okay, so it's still a pretty direct rip-off of "The Core," but hey, Wil Wheaton and body shots. Can't go wrong there.
Thanks to my guestbloggers. I'm impressed. You know... Y'all didn't have to write about me. Still, very entertaining, and I'm glad the place wasn't empty while I was gone.
Let's see... While I was gone...
Well, this is my writing journal, so I'll tell you how I didn't write anything. Not completely true, of course: I outlined another novel, and I wrote a short story by hand, and I took a LOT of notes on what I saw/thought/did.
I also collected a stock of experiences appropriate for a fantasy writer, including learning how to shoot a bow. (Actually, that was so much fun, I'm sorta considering taking up archery, as long as I could keep it primitive and not have to go to competitions.) I also spent some time working out my writing goals for the rest of this year and broadly for next year. I know, I know! That's exactly what you were hoping I'd say!
More later. My body is trying to convince me that it's three hours past bed-time.
A few weeks ago, Mer asked me if I'd guest-blog for her.
I agreed, but I'd been having trouble coming up with a topic as of last week. I'd hate for all of the Writer's Paradise faithful to think I was boring or unoriginal.
After voicing this opinion, Merrie handed a topic to me on a silver platter:
"Well, I mean, outside of Dann, Julie, and a few other people, you're probably one of the people I spend most of my time with, as we're at work 8 hours a day."
Hmmm... WorkMer. It had potential.
For those of you who don't know, here's the Cliffs Notes version: When I came to U of M, I started working at MITS, where Merrie had a supervisory position. She went back to school and stopped being my immediate boss, but I still saw her frequently around the office. After she graduated, she went to work over in Reserves, and promptly recruited me for a higher-paying and less stressful job. W00t.
So, I've had the privilege of seeing an extraordinary number of her personality quirks and work habits. Here are a few:
States of Mind:
-TiredMer: Usually from 8AM-9:30AM and again from 2PM to 3PM (the latter also known as FoodComaMer). When TiredMer is at the helm, the conversations go like this "Meh. Gedda donutz (or "gedda pop.") I needa wakeup. I payoo ifyoo go." It's always a treat to come back with donuts/pop and have it be a surprise because she forgot she sent you.
-AngryMer: The people we need to deal with on a daily basis would drive Gandhi to distraction. It's become a source of entertainment for me to sit back and listen to her try to calmly explain things to people when it's quite clear what she really wants to do is strangle them through the phone. Usually, this particular state involves much shaking of the fists and choice epithets (actual quote: "GAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!").
-IHaveAStoryForYouMer, A.K.A. HeartAttackMer: This particular isotope is so named because she will, without warning, suddenly remember something she wanted to relate. It's usually accompanied by her shooting backward from her desk on her office chair, executing a 90-degree turn to her right, and shouting "OHMYGOD! I just remembered!" with enough speed and surprise that I generally need to keep a few nitro pills on hand.
Workplace Enemies:
-The Filing Cabinet of Zapping +3: For those of you who have seen Office Space (and for those of you who have not, I'll wait. Back? Good.), picture Ron Livingston walking through the door in the morning. The one that shocks him every day. We've got a filing cabinet that does the same thing. The funny thing is, it only ever gets her. This encounter is usually known to briefly summon AngryMer.
-The Sloping Floor: We've got this patch of floor by her desk that, without fail, will cause her to stumble at least once a day. She maintains that it's slightly sloped. There have been, at last count, 3,500 hours spent debating if it does, in fact, exist. I have included a picture, with the angles clearly displayed - you be the judge:
______________________________
Any takers? Didn't think so.
-Harmonica Man: 3 words - Raw. Seething. Hatred. Having spent the last week and a half sitting in her chair, I can't say I blame her. This guy must have had his harmonica crafted to produce a frequency that falls squarely in the range of maximum irritation. And he's out there EVERY DAY.
So, I think I've blathered enough to get myself into trouble when she gets back (and I hope it's been entertaining). Needless to say, the job has its rough patches sometimes, but when working with Mer, it is never, ever boring.
So I was all excited about a chance to write guest entries in Mer's blog--but I never stopped to figure out what I'd write about. Oops.
It's weird to stop and think that if it weren't for the fact that I have an online journal and the fact that Julie has an online journal, I never would have met Mer or a lot of the other people I hang around with nowadays. Further, if Julie and I hadn't recognized each other's inherent geekiness, and decided to cheer each other on for NaNoWriMo--well... a lot of writerly insanity would have been avoided.
And that would have been an enormous shame.
Mer is often both my inspiration and my goad as a writer. She manages to stay so productive, and her writing is so lovely, that she keeps me going when sometimes I might rather lie drooling in front of the television. Sure, sometimes it's jealousy that drives me. Sometimes it's (yes, Eric, I admit it) a competitive nature. Whatever it is, I'm grateful for it. Getting to know Mer (and Julie and everybody else) has made me a better writer. Not to mention it's been a whole lot of fun.
I'm glad I got a chance to get to know this particular wacky subsection of Ann Arbor geekdom. Hoorah for the internet, I suppose. ;)
Hi all, Jason here, guest-blogging while Mer's across the broad Atlantic.
Happy birthday to Mer
Happy birthday to Mer
Happy birthday, dear MerBear
Happy birthday to Mer!
I'm not sure if it was really the first time I met her, but the first time I remember meeting Mer was a Halloween party. She dressed as Paddington, complete with face paint to give her a little black nose. It was positively adorable. I immediately determined to make friends with her and turn her mean. I give myself a B+ for effort and a C for results. Sad.
We go looking at houses tomorrow.
The realtor is taking us around to six places. None of them looked like our dream home in the little black-and-white flyer pictures, but at the very least it will give us a better idea of exactly what we're looking for.
Not that we have any real idea what we're looking for. Okay, Dwinn probably has an idea, but right now my big qualifications are: three bedrooms, two baths, a basement, and hardwood floors. And a double sink in the kitchen. Beyond that...
I mean, I have ideas. The master bath that's as big as my current living room with the sunken tub, or the glassed-in sunporch, or the mosaic tiled floor sitting room with my lemon-yellow velvet sofa. The library. The office with built in bookshelves (because I will never have enough bookshelves). The self-cleaning kitchen. The self-washing and self-folding laundry. The little button by the bed that I can push to teleport the cats into a locked cell in the basement at six a.m.
Alas, all that is well beyond our means.
Except the lemon-yellow velvet sofa.
-Julie
FairMer Factoids (as observed by me, the dwinn)
That's all for today, kids.
[clears throat]
Um, hi, my name is Meera, and I am a guest blogger. I shall be blogging at irregular times today and perhaps on other days during the Fair One's absence.
Have you ever wondered if people sitting down to a quiet (if savage) game of cards with their friends have the host suddenly up and shout, "Let's Get Ready to RUMMY!"
I hadn't until this very moment, but now it's on my mind. Somehow it comes from looking up the definition of the word "fracas." "Fracas" is a word I know, but have never really used before. Some of the synonyms include, "affray," (which is a great word in itself!) and "commotion," while related words like "broil" and "melee" are fairly commonly used in my household.
"Broil" was used last night, in fact. I recall the conversation. "OK," my husband said, "I've set the oven on broil. What temperature do I set it to?"
"Broil," came the answer in stereo.
However, now the word is looking odd, like repeated words often do, and it looks vaguely like a Tolkien dwarf name. "Broil Angusburger." Along with his trusty axe, "Catsup," he'll cut through "Master Mustard" and his evil band of orc condiments.
Lettuce end on that note... because I'm not talking about Broil's buns.
I've been sitting here all day thinking "April third... April third... what am I forgetting..."
So yes, Mer is letting her friends take over while she is belatedly honeymooning in Scotland. Trusting soul, isn't she?
Oooh, ad for the Nick and Jessica Variety Hour. Which I will (sadly) watch. Back around the beginning of Newlyweds, Dwinn and I were over at Chez Fuller and conversation somehow turned to the topic of the show. As Mer (who also adores its trainwreck-edness) and I were trading a recounting of one episode, Dwinn turns to me, eyes filled with betrayal, and said, "You *watch* that show?"
Priceless.
I can't help it. The juxtaposition of Nick's innate midwestern practicality and Jessica's "Please, please tell me the stupidity is an affectation" naiveté has a disturbing allure. Plus, I'm just that bad a person that I like to laugh at dumb people.
-Julie
What's a little 3AM journal entry, between friends?
Yeah, I'm up. Writing. I can neither bring myself to give up or to let go. Not... just... yet.
Not when there's still something to say, and a way to say it better.
I can't figure out if I decided to pluck my eyebrows while thinking because it needs to be done or if I thought it would help keep me awake. Well, let's put it this way: the latter thought was not conscious. It seems to be working, though. My plot and eyebrows grow shapelier by the hour.
In attempting to find an Old English poem on the web (I was looking for something I could translate quickly and throw into my novel at an important point (thus alleviating me the task of making up an actual poem, but getting around all the narstiness of copyright by translating it myself))--
I came across this:
Incipit gestis Rudolphi rangifer tarandus
It's a perfect send-up of OE poetry. And, the best part is, you can say the first line aloud, and a speaker of Modern English would probably understand you.