I have reached the point in the year when the big floppy sweater three sizes (or maybe only two) too big for me must be taken out and worn during writing, when forgetting my slippers is a detriment to concentration, and when I start wondering if I need a pair of gloves with the fingers cut out of them. The last thing always strikes me as something that will not get the job done. It's the tips of my fingers that get cold. I heard a rumor today about a fingertip-warming keyboard, but I have yet to actually verify this.
My only other option is to sell, like, three novels so we can buy new windows and make certain our insulation is up to snuff.
So. Fingertip-warming keyboard it is, to get through the long, cold winters in Michigan.
Where is my damn global warming??
We've had storms blasting through for days now. Finally, something had to give, and it turned out to be our cable modem.
*gasp* No internet! For almost 20 hours! What's a young couple with more computers than cars to do?
I mean, besides growl and swipe at one another?
I don't know what my husband did, but I started making a list of agents and wrote about half a short story. (Yeah, I know. I'm "giving up" on short stories! What's going on?) But without the distractions of the internet, I was forced to mull things over a little more strenuously than I would otherwise.
No, it never occurred to me to go turn on the TV. Why do you ask?
And no, the satellite wasn't out. Just the cable. Take that, stupid cable commercials.
I poked gingerly at the sequel to "Reparations" last night (set in the same world, anyway). It's alternately calling itself "Reclamation" and something more clever that is written down somewhere I can't see from here. I re-read the first bit of it, and thought, "Yes! There, I have it, I have the plot--oops. It's gone again."
Bother.
So, fed up with the elusivity of "Reparations," I looked at "Antigone's" again, and it's proving equally elusive.
Yes, it's quite possible I'm Done With Short Stories For Now. I hope it won't be a long doneness. But on the other hand, I was Done With Novels for a while there, too, and you know. I'm over that.
And, and, I found a pretty piece of By Right of Conquest, which I showed to that novel's biggest fan, but he mostly just seemed flummoxed by it, since it was about a character I've never mentioned. Oops. But that's ok; it'll all make sense one day. It's only significant because it made me think, "Well, I know how to write some of it. Maybe I could just write around those areas I don't understand just yet." Non-sequentially. It's a thought. I'm not sure yet if I'm able to write non-sequentially, but why not give it a shot?
It's a thought. It might be a good summer side-project.
Actually, this whole dealing with elusive short stories is making me suspicious. I think it's probable that I'm about to (or just did) break through a plateau in the level of my writing, and I'm just... trying to deal with it.
Or maybe not. I might also be pretentious, and over-thinking it a bit.
Finally, Brook. I'm still distilling it, trying to figure out what to work on. Reading Sherwood Smith's philosophies avidly and turning over in my mind where I've been, where I'm going.
I realized that there's a point in Brook where people might think, "Gaugh! Message!" but ultimately, that was not my intent. Brook is blinded, both physically and clairvoyantly by a sorcerer, and has to deal with this; she regains physical sight, but not the other kind. It could be suspected that there's a Message in how she deals with this, but that was not my intention in the least. It's a plot point for the following books, as well as the thing which ultimately isolates her character from her peers. Yes, how she deals with it all is how I think people should deal with adversity, but that's not intended to be a Message, that's just the kind of people I want to write about.
Now, the fact that I spent all that time justifying myself, does that mean anything?
I absolutely must clean my office, and set a new writing schedule to go with my writing goals. Right now, there's no way to spread out and write at my desk. That's the other problem, you see; novel-writing (for me) has proven to be space intensive. Research books, book bible, notecards, notes, colored pens, all kinds of stuff. Tea or water. Space is necessary.
Rain has come. Every scent from the yard and garden is fighting its way in here. Lush. Yummy. The smell of green.
Out under the veiled stars again. It may be true that this is the grayest region of an already gray state. But there are thunderstorms brewing, and it's warm. So warm, in fact, that the noises of a few neighbors' air conditioning units obscure the soughing of wind through our pines, and it's very hard to pick out the frog noises.
No, suburbia's not my favorite place.
I do appreciate the scents: fresh mown grass, and flowers from a variety of trees. The violets are out, as well. If I try to candy any this year, I promise I will be more careful of the recipe.
In the middle of Suzanne Enoch's London's Perfect Hero. I think she's improving her style. It's been first-rate entertainment so far, and I'm not half-finished yet.
Other writerly news: Sherwood Smith appears to have a journal. My internet joy is exponentially increased today.
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.
It rained hard in the night. We have the swamp in the backyard to prove it. I'm glad that (so far) that Michigan didn't pull the classic snow-on-the-first-day-of-Spring joke. Rain is perfectly acceptable. The thunderstorm was very nice, in fact.
I wrote about 2k on Brook last night, edited another 3k v. carefully, and skipped editing another 7k. I'm not displeased with this progress. While I do need to concentrate on adding more to the manuscript, and quickly, I think this rate of speed could very well work.
I know, intellectually, that writing books for younger readers is not easier. In fact, I spent many moments floundering for a 4th grade way of saying "diplomatically expressionless" last night. Trying to let the sophistication stay in the plotting, the emotion and not show through in the words, without sounding contrived or dumbed-down--yes. That's hard work. But it's work I think I can do.
But it feels easier anyway. The path through story is more linear. The sub-plots aren't as convoluted. I can go for the easier emotions, not because I think children feel less or anything idiotic like that, but because they don't (I didn't) spend as much time telling themselves how they should feel. Adults, maybe, tell them how they should feel, but I have managed to summon up my 12-year-old frustrations with adults just fine.
The grass didn't all go brown over the winter, which just means that the snow fell before the cold killed it. It's not emerald green, but for a Michigander, it's green enough.
(I am reminded of growing up in North Carolina, looking out and seeing how bleah and horribly dreary winter was, and then having my aunt come visit from Michigan and just go into ecstasies. "The grass is so beautiful! So lush! So green! Oh, is that a dandelion?" Yeah. Dandelions in November and February. Winter in North Carolina was a joke.)
Right now, there's a pretty, patterned dusting of snow on the green grass, looking almost fractal in nature.
Signs of spring. You just have to know how to see them.
Writing and the usual blathering behind the cut-tag.
I could not settle down for writing last night, so I researched instead. I read about a quarter of La Nouvelle France: The Making of French Canada--A Cultural History by Peter N. Moogk. Am growing attached to the mid 1600's for my Crisis Point in my alternate history (in which the settlement of the New World is brought to a screeching halt).
This book has some good stuff in it, including early population reports, good descriptions of the fur trade (see, if I halt the settlement of the New World in 1650, Detroit will never become important; Mackinac will remain the portal between Montreal and the interior), and other tidbits. In thumbing through it, I think I may have to read another quarter of it; I only skimmed famly dynamics and magic/religion last night. Of course, if I'm at the point of reading half of it, it's no longer enough to just take notes from the library copy; I'm going to need to buy a copy and just keep it on my shelf.
This is the path to too many books, you know. This is how it happens.
I printed off 4 of the 5 stories I need to rewrite (I don't know that it's easier to edit from paper, but I believe you have to go over the story on paper at least once before you can consider it rewritten). It made a healthy stack of pages. Sometimes I amaze myself with my output. Only sometimes, though.
Sometimes I also amaze myself with my willingness to dance with the self-justification monkey. He's a friendly monkey, of course, but when other people see you dance with him, they get disgusted. Right now, we are doing the "Can't Write X Until after my Vacation!" Waltz. That's because I have 2 stories steeping in my head, both of which take place in Britain--specifically, in places I am going to visit in Britain in just 20-some short days. So, the monkey assures me that I can work on these stories in Britain, I don't have to do them now. Even though I've already been to these places, it will be much easier when they're fresh in my mind...
Stupid monkey.
This week's revelation is that I'm making my short stories too complicated. Stop with the fripperies, Fuller. Just tell the story.
So noted.
I just wanted to reassure those of you stuck up here in northern climes with me that the sun has come round again.
At certain times of the year, for about ten minutes each day, the morning sun crests West Hall (used to be West Engin) and pours directly onto the Physics Building, and as it creeps across the third story windows of said Physics building, I am blinded by the reflected glare while sitting at my desk. Reflected sunlight pours across everything, giving Brother Bear a halo and highlighting the dust on my computer.
I don't mind the glare. It's my own private astronomical event, my personal Stonehenge, if you will. It tells me spring is coming.