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Great Moment in VRS
May. 5th, 2019 12:54 pm"With valley shoes* there are so many things it could be."
*belly issues
"With valley shoes* there are so many things it could be."
*belly issues
It's been a challenging couple of weeks—but all petty stuff. Elsewhere on my flist and in the wider world, real and heartbreaking challenges have been happening. But the minor league stuff has eaten up my time and made me distracted.
My petty list: Unanticipated events, scheduling kerfluffles, misunderstandings, annoying narcissists, I've been sick twice (including today), and there have been major and minor pet mishaps.
The good things: Undie's doing much better. Now that the nasty infection's on its way out, she's been rolling onto her back and making coy burbles in order to get scritches. It's nice to see her feeling better.
And I finished chapter 40 of Night Warrior yesterday. Chapter 40 is the last chapter of the book. It's all over except the epilogue(s), my friends. I'm not giddy yet, because I've got to tie up the loose strings for three timelines in that (those) epilogue(s), and I had to fight hard for every damned sentence of chapter 40. The epilogue(s) is (are) already partially written (I've been anticipation writing for weeks now), but I don't want to get cocky. It'll be done when it's done.
And then I'll get giddy.
Watch this space for whoops and chortles. ☺☻☺☻
My petty list: Unanticipated events, scheduling kerfluffles, misunderstandings, annoying narcissists, I've been sick twice (including today), and there have been major and minor pet mishaps.
The good things: Undie's doing much better. Now that the nasty infection's on its way out, she's been rolling onto her back and making coy burbles in order to get scritches. It's nice to see her feeling better.
And I finished chapter 40 of Night Warrior yesterday. Chapter 40 is the last chapter of the book. It's all over except the epilogue(s), my friends. I'm not giddy yet, because I've got to tie up the loose strings for three timelines in that (those) epilogue(s), and I had to fight hard for every damned sentence of chapter 40. The epilogue(s) is (are) already partially written (I've been anticipation writing for weeks now), but I don't want to get cocky. It'll be done when it's done.
And then I'll get giddy.
Watch this space for whoops and chortles. ☺☻☺☻
Two characters in search of a plot
Feb. 13th, 2006 12:08 pm"I can't believe you said that. You know you're only engaging in plotting by stupidity or we would have cleared up this misunderstanding five years ago!"
"As you know, Bob, I have habitually engaged in plotting by stupidity for years. In fact, we engaged in it every chance we got back in the old days just before we launched into our campaign of melodrama. As I'm sure you remember."
"Yes, of course I remember, you idiot, I was there!"
"But there's always a chance you've contracted selective Alzheimer's and blotted out those years. Besides, if I'd made even a half-assed attempt to clear up this misunderstanding, I wouldn't have had any plot left at all."
"You're industrious. You could have thought up something else."
"I'm tired. To quote a friend of mine, 'This writing thing is hard.'"
"What do you mean, 'this writing thing'?"
"We're characters in a novel, Bob. As you know."
"I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding."
"As you know, Bob, I have habitually engaged in plotting by stupidity for years. In fact, we engaged in it every chance we got back in the old days just before we launched into our campaign of melodrama. As I'm sure you remember."
"Yes, of course I remember, you idiot, I was there!"
"But there's always a chance you've contracted selective Alzheimer's and blotted out those years. Besides, if I'd made even a half-assed attempt to clear up this misunderstanding, I wouldn't have had any plot left at all."
"You're industrious. You could have thought up something else."
"I'm tired. To quote a friend of mine, 'This writing thing is hard.'"
"What do you mean, 'this writing thing'?"
"We're characters in a novel, Bob. As you know."
"I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding."
The petrified woman
Aug. 2nd, 2005 02:23 pmWhich subject line reminds me of the essay of the same name by Loren Eiseley from his book of essays, The Night Country (not to be confused with the novel of the same name by Stewart O'Nan). Highly recommended. Eiseley was a forerunner of scientists doing popular humanist essays, like Stephen Jay Gould. Much of Eiseley's work skirts the edge of poetry, and definitely reads like fiction. Eminently approachable and very human.
[broken picture link]
Writing business of the day:Completed the rewrite of my problematic chapter 17. It wasn't a hardcore rewrite, just the "softcore" ones I do before posting to the workshop. There's still plenty wrong and I'm not sure how I'll fix it, but that's for the rewrites. So I can officially forget about it now until the second draft. Except when it's being reviewed on OWW, that is. :-)
It's funny: I hadn't read this chapter since the end of March and thought it fairly competent. Rereading it I saw for the first time that it incorporated one of my least favorite plot devices since the history of plot devices. I couldn't believe it. Clearly, someone has snuck into my novel again and written bilge while my back was turned. I need to catch that little miscreant! So I cleaned that up some, but I'm still not happy with it.
Ouch of the day: Last night I went to a yoga class for the first time in years. I'm not saying I'm not hurting in places I didn't know I had, but overall I feel really good. I'm going back next week. I haven't been that relaxed in gobs of time and I slept straight through the night for once. That alone was worth the stretchy-stretchy, owie-owie. Besides, when I get aches and pains in conjunction with physical activity, I feel okay about it, like I earned my aches rather than just having them foisted on me.
And here's the funny part: I was absolutely terrified before I got there. Of what? I dunno. Scared they'd laugh at me or beat me with bamboo sticks or throw those star knives at me. Then I reassured myself that it probably wasn't a ninja yoga class and they don't usually beat people up. The thing is, showing up cold to a class is intimidating under the best of circumstances. Because it had been so long since I'd done anything like that and feeling like I was out of shape didn't help. But the teacher was really kind and generous and the minute I walked in and met her, I felt comfortable. I was able to keep up okay, though I had to modify my positions somewhat. But that was okay with the teacher, so it made the whole experience a very good one.
My terror at shaking myself out of my routine told me it was something I had to do or risk becoming calcified. That's always a big danger in life, refusing to ever move out of your comfort zone and turning to living stone. There's a lesson in there about art, too, but I think you can draw your own conclusions.
Vignette of the day: I'm at the car wash Sunday and a woman is complaining loudly to another woman that a cop had just stopped her on the street and implied that she was a hooker. "I guess a woman just can't wear shorts in this town!" she said in outrage.
She was wearing shorts—so short they were practically thongs, so short that both cheeks stuck out the leg holes. Accompanying these shorts, she wore high-heel, see-through slips on, the ultimate in CFM shoes; a skin tight sparkly lycra turquoise spaghetti-strap tank with a push up bra so her cheeks were not the only thing sticking out of her ensemble; her hair was streaked with every shade of blonde known to nature and unnature to go with the dark roots; and she was walking along a stretch of Lincoln Blvd. known to be a habitat for hookers.
Now, a woman has the right to dress anyway she wants and not get hassled for it. And some cops are on power trips. But. One can see how the misunderstanding might have occurred.
[broken picture link]
Writing business of the day:Completed the rewrite of my problematic chapter 17. It wasn't a hardcore rewrite, just the "softcore" ones I do before posting to the workshop. There's still plenty wrong and I'm not sure how I'll fix it, but that's for the rewrites. So I can officially forget about it now until the second draft. Except when it's being reviewed on OWW, that is. :-)
It's funny: I hadn't read this chapter since the end of March and thought it fairly competent. Rereading it I saw for the first time that it incorporated one of my least favorite plot devices since the history of plot devices. I couldn't believe it. Clearly, someone has snuck into my novel again and written bilge while my back was turned. I need to catch that little miscreant! So I cleaned that up some, but I'm still not happy with it.
Ouch of the day: Last night I went to a yoga class for the first time in years. I'm not saying I'm not hurting in places I didn't know I had, but overall I feel really good. I'm going back next week. I haven't been that relaxed in gobs of time and I slept straight through the night for once. That alone was worth the stretchy-stretchy, owie-owie. Besides, when I get aches and pains in conjunction with physical activity, I feel okay about it, like I earned my aches rather than just having them foisted on me.
And here's the funny part: I was absolutely terrified before I got there. Of what? I dunno. Scared they'd laugh at me or beat me with bamboo sticks or throw those star knives at me. Then I reassured myself that it probably wasn't a ninja yoga class and they don't usually beat people up. The thing is, showing up cold to a class is intimidating under the best of circumstances. Because it had been so long since I'd done anything like that and feeling like I was out of shape didn't help. But the teacher was really kind and generous and the minute I walked in and met her, I felt comfortable. I was able to keep up okay, though I had to modify my positions somewhat. But that was okay with the teacher, so it made the whole experience a very good one.
My terror at shaking myself out of my routine told me it was something I had to do or risk becoming calcified. That's always a big danger in life, refusing to ever move out of your comfort zone and turning to living stone. There's a lesson in there about art, too, but I think you can draw your own conclusions.
Vignette of the day: I'm at the car wash Sunday and a woman is complaining loudly to another woman that a cop had just stopped her on the street and implied that she was a hooker. "I guess a woman just can't wear shorts in this town!" she said in outrage.
She was wearing shorts—so short they were practically thongs, so short that both cheeks stuck out the leg holes. Accompanying these shorts, she wore high-heel, see-through slips on, the ultimate in CFM shoes; a skin tight sparkly lycra turquoise spaghetti-strap tank with a push up bra so her cheeks were not the only thing sticking out of her ensemble; her hair was streaked with every shade of blonde known to nature and unnature to go with the dark roots; and she was walking along a stretch of Lincoln Blvd. known to be a habitat for hookers.
Now, a woman has the right to dress anyway she wants and not get hassled for it. And some cops are on power trips. But. One can see how the misunderstanding might have occurred.
