"What are you writing?"
I awoke to the real world to find Noel looking with curiosity at the Symphonians’ notebook.
"Oh, this and that," I stammered, trying to sound nonchalant as I quickly covered the scene with my arm. "I don't know. Sometimes I write any old thing in here. It's nice." I clutched my skull. I'm smart! Yet I talk like a cheerleader!
"You know, Kathy, I see you with that notebook, and more and more I think you ought to try out for Brain Bowl. I’m graduating next month, so I won’t be able to play any more. But you'd be perfect for the team. You obviously know how to concentrate, and you’re always hanging out in the library, so you’re not afraid of a little knowledge." Noel, holding his black fedora by its crown, lifted it a few inches and dropped it, lifted it and dropped it.
I squawked, "Really?" I cleared my throat. "I don’t know. It's obvious I can't talk."
"You're talking now."
"Yeah ... but talking's hard." Wow, did that ever sound dumb!
Noel put both arms on the table and leaned toward me, and I caught a whiff of spearmint gum. He chopped the table with the side of his hand as he spoke. "You have to learn some things to make talking easier. It's not easy for everyone. I learned because I had to." He leaned back in his chair. "Kathy, when I moved down here from Parnell in junior high, I didn't know anyone. So I made myself stand out from the crowd. I spoke to everybody, I remembered names, I complimented people. They paid attention. Now I'm beginning to reap the dividends. It was tough, though. I can't believe how cliquish these people are."
I nodded. "You got that right."
"Personally, I think you'd do well in Brain Bowl because you like research and you're smart. You've always got a book or a bass clarinet. Anyone who plays bass has got to have brains." There was a little wink in his voice.
I shrugged, though I was flattered. It would never be possible, though. It was too easy to look like an idiot in front of everybody. "Oh, I don't know," I said, being polite. "I'm doing all kinds of music stuff...." I glanced up and found his brown eyes full on mine, saw the little crinkles at their edges where he smiled. An electric current ran through me. Confused, I pushed up the sleeves of my cardigan. The library was warm as a strange tide rose in my chest, turbulent, wonderful, frightening. “I’m pretty busy,” I stammered, looking at my green notebook like some doofus.
“Have it your way,” Noel said, friendly.
He went back to his test. His brows lowered in thought as he frowned at his paper, his dark face intense, unguarded. Could he see how defenseless, how alone I am?
Yeah, maybe he'll pick you up and carry you away.
At once my imagination kicked into overdrive: Noel carried me out of burning houses, through war zones, rescued me from the mall during Christmas season.
The bell jangled: my lunch break was over. Reluctantly, I stood. Noel gave my arm a gentle squeeze, and I felt the warmth of his dark hand.
"See you later." Noel smiled at me. I longed to put my arms around him and AIEE don't think about that! And with one last confused smile in return I fled. I ran down the hall to Chorus, dodging students, my heart pounding, propelled by a giddy sense of doom. This is going to kill me! But I love it!
Yet I wanted to run down the hall with my arms open singing “Musetta’s Waltz” in a ringing operatic soprano, though my pipes would not have cooperated.
"It's just an infatuation," I told myself, knocking over students too slow to get out of my way, as my thoughts spun around Noel like a whirlpool. "Ignore it." Because my other infatuations had faded out after a year or two. This one would too. Simple as that.
Another part of me rebelled. Look, why are you so scared? Why can’t you be like a normal girl and go out with normal guys?
I didn’t have a good answer. So I squashed the voice like a bug. “That’s just the way I am,” I muttered, heading up the stairs back into the bandroom where the other Chorus students were gathering. “Deal with it.”
That’s not a valid reason any more, said the other voice, crawling out from under my metaphorical shoe. Why not change? Why not act like the rest of the world?
Shut up. I dropped a two-ton boulder on it and got out my choir music. I can't even take a hug, though I'd love a hug. They felt like an intrusion.
But that kind of love – sex – scared me even more. It wasn’t like I was going to have sex before I got married, anyway. Well, okay, not that I was even interested in getting married, either! So I’d be a virgin. I was curious, of course, and I mean really curious, but still, there’s nobody out there that I’d show myself naked to. Someone would see me with nothing on! Oh, God, that would be awful!
Besides, Noel’s a senior, and he’s going to graduate next month, so why bother? He has plenty of girlfriends to pick from. And I'm not good enough for him anyway.
That, I figured, was that.
Except I suddenly had an image of Jeremy, one of my Symphonians, tearing down the ice after the hockey puck, his blonde hair streaming out from under his helmet like Jagr’s. His blue eyes shone with the thrill of the chase. With a single slap shot – goal! And he did a double axle to celebrate.
Jeremy wasn’t afraid. So why was I?
(End chapter one.)
02 October 2006
28 September 2006
Symphonians part 2!
After my usual two-second lunch, I hurried to the library to get some work done.
In my notebook my Symphonians waited for me. Through them I plunged into another world: something like the show “Friends,” only with instruments.
See, I’d always been pathologically shy, where it just scares me to speak to people. I had a horrible time my freshman year. I was so depressed and isolated that some days I didn’t wash my hair. I wore the same sweatshirt until the cuffs got all worn at the edges, and I could not approach people for anything. I had problems with bullies that year, too, and because people ignored it when the bullies heckled me. So, I created my own friends. The Symphonians were everything that friends should be – fiercely loyal, generous to a fault, always loving.
And now I was a junior. I’d found my feet – washed my hair, wore cotton tops and comfy jeans and white tennies, so I wasn’t a total wreck. I liked to think I look nice, no need to be a supermodel, but nice, and I smiled a lot at people. It was just the talking part that gave me fits.
I headed to my little table in the reference section. When I rounded the corner of the stacks, I stopped. Noel was sitting there, working on what looked like a makeup exam, black hair rumpled, his black fedora sitting next to his arm. Before I could look around for another table, he looked up with those dark brown eyes. "Hey, Kathy. Did you want to sit here?"
“Um, sure,” I said. “Thanks.” When I sat down, I scooted my chair a few inches away, hoping Noel didn't notice. I wanted to scoot over farther, but despite my discomfort I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I pulled down the sleeves of my big cardigan (the library was freezing) and opened my green notebook, chewing my lip, and escaped into my work. Revisions, revisions, endless revisions. I loved ‘em, because I loved my people.
*
It was late. The concert was over, and most of the Symphony had gone home. Backstage, Roderick leaned on the piano, stuffing his tie into the pocket of his dress shirt while Jeremy and Penelope demolished another sonata. All three were still dressed in their black suits or dress, their regular concert attire. Penelope had black, curly hair that she wore loose around her shoulders, though she had it tied it back when she played her viola. Jeremy, who’d thrown his tie over his shoulder, his wavy blonde hair rumpled, was complaining about the way Penelope played her sonata, but the trumpeter wasn’t doing a very good job himself of showing her how it should be done. Jeremy gave up and began pounding out some Van Halen songs. Penelope covered her ears and rolled her eyes, but jokingly.
Roderick alone saw Violet heading toward the backstage door. Though Violet was about 25, about the same age as the three friends, tonight she walked like an old lady, with careful, small steps. Roderick thought, what does she do to herself to walk like that?
The three Symphonians were loitering around the piano, enjoying each other’s company and making a racket. It had been a while since Violet had loitered with them. That bothered Roderick. Has she stopped hanging around with us because I’m … interested in her? Violet was married. He’d never approached her. He had his reasons.
But to see Violet heading toward the back entrance in that dress like a black tulip, limping as if she hurt, stirred him. Now Penelope and Jeremy saw Violet, and he saw they all missed each other from the regretful, lingering looks they exchanged.
“Violet,” Roderick said. Saying her name made his blood leap in his veins. His dark hands tightened on the piano’s case. She turned, the dress flaring slightly around her ankles, and regarded him like a stray cat, ready to run.
Roderick waved her over. “Come here and hang out with us.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy eagerly leaned forward, arms crossed on the piano’s sill, to look around Penelope. Everything he did was with that boyish, wide-eyed enthusiasm, as if all his life was a variation of flying down the ice after a hockey puck. “We hardly ever see you any more. Where’ve you been?”
Violet, her clarinet case at her side, shrugged one shoulder so it touched her wavy brown hair. “I’ve been busy.” But Roderick thought that her face changed while she said it, as if she did not like being busy, whatever that entailed. Yet she took a step toward them. “Then again, it’s no fun being a hermit.”
“Play an upside-down etude for us,” Penelope pleaded, her brown eyes concerned as always. “It’s obvious that Jeremy and I can’t handle this instrument.”
“Yes, and it shows,” Violet said briskly. As if rising to the challenge, she came to the bench, her black dress swishing around her ankles. It had a fine, wide skirt to it that belled out as she walked: Roderick’s favorite. “Move aside, people.” And there was a spark of that ferocious Violet he’d always known. Roderick smiled.
Violet attacked the piano with grace, her fingers everywhere at once, something from Czerny’s School of Velocity. She fell into the music, her fingers flashing across the keyboard. Roderick loved to listen to her, as if the music was speaking to him. Then Violet played “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” in the style of Chopin, grinning. She messed around with Chopin etudes. First it was “Paradise City” by Guns ‘N Roses in Chopin’s style, then some Green Day, then “The Thrill is Gone” by B.B. King. The Symphonians cheered and made jokes, and Violet bantered back. She caught Roderick’s eye and grinned, which made him feel like he could lift a car off the ground. Something passed between them, a spark that he saw leap in her eyes.
(Today I could feel the emotions leaping between Roderick and Violet like living things, intense. Why was my heart pounding as I revised this scene? Why was I feeling so self-conscious as I scribbled more notes in the margins?)
As if abashed, Violet ducked her head to the keyboard. Her music suddenly turned terrible, jarring, filled with what sounded like wrong notes, except there were no right notes.
“What in the world is that?” Penelope raised her head like a displeased queen.
Roderick watched Violet frowning over the keyboard. From where he stood, he could not see her hands at work, only the sweet movement of Violet’s body as she chased down the notes. “It’s from the opera Wozzeck,” Roderick said. “It’s the final so-called aria after Wozzeck kills his cheating wife and the man she was with.” Roderick’s stepfather used to play in an opera orchestra.
Violet spared him a sidelong glance, then turned her eyes back to the keyboard before anything else could pass between them. “So-called aria, my foot. It’s good music, so deal with it. Besides, that’s how the world is.”
“Not necessarily,” Roderick said lightly, wishing she’d look at him like that again. “Maybe there is such a thing as a happy ending.”
“Ha!” Jeremy cried, leaning on the piano. “Cooper, when have you ever thought that?”
“Don’t want to hear it, Richardson,” Roderick muttered.
But just then Violet glanced at the clock – and stood bolt upright, so fast that the piano bench tipped slightly. The piano fell silent. “He’s right,” Violet said, grabbing her purse. Was that fear in her face? And what brought that on? She’d been there for only a half-hour. “I can’t stay,” Violet said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to miss my ride.” Violet raced out the door, her black dress flaring behind her.
Everyone stared after her. Roderick was floored.
Penelope said, “Did we offend her?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s probably just late.”
But Roderick stared at the door, which was still slowly closing, was nearly closed, after her swift exit. That fear on Violet’s face was way out of proportion to missing a ride.
In my notebook my Symphonians waited for me. Through them I plunged into another world: something like the show “Friends,” only with instruments.
See, I’d always been pathologically shy, where it just scares me to speak to people. I had a horrible time my freshman year. I was so depressed and isolated that some days I didn’t wash my hair. I wore the same sweatshirt until the cuffs got all worn at the edges, and I could not approach people for anything. I had problems with bullies that year, too, and because people ignored it when the bullies heckled me. So, I created my own friends. The Symphonians were everything that friends should be – fiercely loyal, generous to a fault, always loving.
And now I was a junior. I’d found my feet – washed my hair, wore cotton tops and comfy jeans and white tennies, so I wasn’t a total wreck. I liked to think I look nice, no need to be a supermodel, but nice, and I smiled a lot at people. It was just the talking part that gave me fits.
I headed to my little table in the reference section. When I rounded the corner of the stacks, I stopped. Noel was sitting there, working on what looked like a makeup exam, black hair rumpled, his black fedora sitting next to his arm. Before I could look around for another table, he looked up with those dark brown eyes. "Hey, Kathy. Did you want to sit here?"
“Um, sure,” I said. “Thanks.” When I sat down, I scooted my chair a few inches away, hoping Noel didn't notice. I wanted to scoot over farther, but despite my discomfort I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I pulled down the sleeves of my big cardigan (the library was freezing) and opened my green notebook, chewing my lip, and escaped into my work. Revisions, revisions, endless revisions. I loved ‘em, because I loved my people.
*
It was late. The concert was over, and most of the Symphony had gone home. Backstage, Roderick leaned on the piano, stuffing his tie into the pocket of his dress shirt while Jeremy and Penelope demolished another sonata. All three were still dressed in their black suits or dress, their regular concert attire. Penelope had black, curly hair that she wore loose around her shoulders, though she had it tied it back when she played her viola. Jeremy, who’d thrown his tie over his shoulder, his wavy blonde hair rumpled, was complaining about the way Penelope played her sonata, but the trumpeter wasn’t doing a very good job himself of showing her how it should be done. Jeremy gave up and began pounding out some Van Halen songs. Penelope covered her ears and rolled her eyes, but jokingly.
Roderick alone saw Violet heading toward the backstage door. Though Violet was about 25, about the same age as the three friends, tonight she walked like an old lady, with careful, small steps. Roderick thought, what does she do to herself to walk like that?
The three Symphonians were loitering around the piano, enjoying each other’s company and making a racket. It had been a while since Violet had loitered with them. That bothered Roderick. Has she stopped hanging around with us because I’m … interested in her? Violet was married. He’d never approached her. He had his reasons.
But to see Violet heading toward the back entrance in that dress like a black tulip, limping as if she hurt, stirred him. Now Penelope and Jeremy saw Violet, and he saw they all missed each other from the regretful, lingering looks they exchanged.
“Violet,” Roderick said. Saying her name made his blood leap in his veins. His dark hands tightened on the piano’s case. She turned, the dress flaring slightly around her ankles, and regarded him like a stray cat, ready to run.
Roderick waved her over. “Come here and hang out with us.”
“Yeah.” Jeremy eagerly leaned forward, arms crossed on the piano’s sill, to look around Penelope. Everything he did was with that boyish, wide-eyed enthusiasm, as if all his life was a variation of flying down the ice after a hockey puck. “We hardly ever see you any more. Where’ve you been?”
Violet, her clarinet case at her side, shrugged one shoulder so it touched her wavy brown hair. “I’ve been busy.” But Roderick thought that her face changed while she said it, as if she did not like being busy, whatever that entailed. Yet she took a step toward them. “Then again, it’s no fun being a hermit.”
“Play an upside-down etude for us,” Penelope pleaded, her brown eyes concerned as always. “It’s obvious that Jeremy and I can’t handle this instrument.”
“Yes, and it shows,” Violet said briskly. As if rising to the challenge, she came to the bench, her black dress swishing around her ankles. It had a fine, wide skirt to it that belled out as she walked: Roderick’s favorite. “Move aside, people.” And there was a spark of that ferocious Violet he’d always known. Roderick smiled.
Violet attacked the piano with grace, her fingers everywhere at once, something from Czerny’s School of Velocity. She fell into the music, her fingers flashing across the keyboard. Roderick loved to listen to her, as if the music was speaking to him. Then Violet played “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” in the style of Chopin, grinning. She messed around with Chopin etudes. First it was “Paradise City” by Guns ‘N Roses in Chopin’s style, then some Green Day, then “The Thrill is Gone” by B.B. King. The Symphonians cheered and made jokes, and Violet bantered back. She caught Roderick’s eye and grinned, which made him feel like he could lift a car off the ground. Something passed between them, a spark that he saw leap in her eyes.
(Today I could feel the emotions leaping between Roderick and Violet like living things, intense. Why was my heart pounding as I revised this scene? Why was I feeling so self-conscious as I scribbled more notes in the margins?)
As if abashed, Violet ducked her head to the keyboard. Her music suddenly turned terrible, jarring, filled with what sounded like wrong notes, except there were no right notes.
“What in the world is that?” Penelope raised her head like a displeased queen.
Roderick watched Violet frowning over the keyboard. From where he stood, he could not see her hands at work, only the sweet movement of Violet’s body as she chased down the notes. “It’s from the opera Wozzeck,” Roderick said. “It’s the final so-called aria after Wozzeck kills his cheating wife and the man she was with.” Roderick’s stepfather used to play in an opera orchestra.
Violet spared him a sidelong glance, then turned her eyes back to the keyboard before anything else could pass between them. “So-called aria, my foot. It’s good music, so deal with it. Besides, that’s how the world is.”
“Not necessarily,” Roderick said lightly, wishing she’d look at him like that again. “Maybe there is such a thing as a happy ending.”
“Ha!” Jeremy cried, leaning on the piano. “Cooper, when have you ever thought that?”
“Don’t want to hear it, Richardson,” Roderick muttered.
But just then Violet glanced at the clock – and stood bolt upright, so fast that the piano bench tipped slightly. The piano fell silent. “He’s right,” Violet said, grabbing her purse. Was that fear in her face? And what brought that on? She’d been there for only a half-hour. “I can’t stay,” Violet said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to miss my ride.” Violet raced out the door, her black dress flaring behind her.
Everyone stared after her. Roderick was floored.
Penelope said, “Did we offend her?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s probably just late.”
But Roderick stared at the door, which was still slowly closing, was nearly closed, after her swift exit. That fear on Violet’s face was way out of proportion to missing a ride.
26 September 2006
The first installment of The Symphonians!
Hey guys!
On a lark, I thought I'd start serially posting my novel The Symphonians, bit by bit. I figure that by the time I've posted the whole thing, I will have achieved publication. It's 338 pages long, so settle in.
Enjoy!
On a lark, I thought I'd start serially posting my novel The Symphonians, bit by bit. I figure that by the time I've posted the whole thing, I will have achieved publication. It's 338 pages long, so settle in.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1 – JUST ANOTHER HEART IN NEED OF RESCUE
Concert band finished early, so there was time to talk before the next class began. As I headed to the instrument room with my bass clarinet, I saw three girls crowded together reading the same romance novel. They’d wait until everyone had finished the same pages before turning to the next page. Romance! I rolled my eyes. Just look at that cover, I thought. The man had conveniently lost his shirt, so he was able to show off his firm six-pack abs. And he had absolutely no chest hair. Maybe he had his chest waxed. I wondered if he’d screamed like a baby when they ripped the wax off. And the woman’s dress looked ready to fall off at the slightest touch. Man and woman strained toward each other, lips parted expectantly, their long locks (his black, hers blonde) rippling in some kind of gale-force wind. Tangle city. Ha!
And then I realized three pairs of eyes glared at me over the top of the romance novel. Whoops. I stopped chortling and slunk away to the instrument room.
The instrument room was crowded and warm, and it smelled like one of the freshmen went too heavy on the perfume, but I pulled in my elbows as I swabbed out my bass clarinet, singing quietly. I watched the adjoining tuba room from the corner of my eye. When Noel set his tuba, bell-down, in its place, I smiled at him, then ducked my head like some goofball.
“Morning, Kathy.” Noel came over to the partition dividing us and set his dimpled chin on it. His bodiless head looked like a serving of John the Baptist. I liked that comparison -- until I thought of dancing to him like Salome. I had to duck my head again. Hi! I’m a fire engine!
Jo, putting up her trumpet, saw Noel’s head sitting there without its body. She shrieked, "Don't do that!" and ran out.
"You look seriously spooky like that," I ventured shyly. It was suddenly getting warm. I pushed up the sleeves of my cardigan.
Noel's disembodied head gave me a Cheshire cat grin, his dark-brown eyes crinkling. "I know. That’s why I do it … hey, Kathy, has anyone told you you're kind of sexy?"
More blushing! Lots of it! "I am not!" I made as if I would bop him with the neck of the bass. Noel ducked, bonking his chin against the partition. He said stuff like that to girls all over school and put his arms around their shoulders. As far as I could tell, though, he wasn’t a player, just a nice guy. Noel had even given me a friendly hug a few days ago, which I liked, but at the same time made me shrink into myself. Still, never in a million years would I be . . . oh, even the word made me blush! "Besides, I'm a hermit. I mean a Kermit. No, I do mean hermit. Don't I?" I put my hand over my face and giggled insanely.
"You’re kind of cute when you get flustered. Come on, let’s get together and ‘do the things that lovers do.’"
“Er … read books, right?” I squeaked.
“Naw. Fight.”
I laughed, embarrassing myself more when I snorted like a pig. Noel gave me a “bye y’all” wave and left. I snorted some more just to make fun of myself. Oh, it would be so nice to have my brain attached to my mouth!
Me? Sexy? Ha! I closed the bass case.
Still, a few months ago Noel had taken off his fedora, leaving his black hair all rumpled, and asked me to the Christmas dance. It wasn’t a big deal, just a small-town school dance, but I’d had a few random daydreams about going. When he asked me, I thought, here’s my chance! Except I lowered my eyes to hide my standard four-alarm blush and stammered, “I’m not the type to go out with guys.”
Noel tried to smile and be a good sport. “You don’t go out with any guys? Or just guys like me?”
"I'm sorry! Just any guys! Or gals," I added, even more flustered, realizing how I’d sounded with my declaration. That kind of talk around here can get you walloped upside the head with a Bible. “I mean, it’s nothing against you, really. You’re nice.”
"I’m nice.” Noel melodramatically clutched his heart as he headed up the hall. "Thanks, Kathy. Just rub that salt into the wound."
Cringe.
That took place four months ago and I was still vexed at myself. I really didn’t want to hurt Noel’s feelings. Social occasions made me feel awkward. Also, I’d never been out with anybody, ever, so I don’t know what the heck I would do with myself. They need to have manuals for high-school juniors who have never been on a date, never kissed a guy, so when they do go on a date, they won’t look totally stupid. Though I would be embarrassed to buy a book that says, “I’ve never gone out with actual men!"
I closed my bass case and clicked the latches shut. A strange, suffocating feeling descended like a cloud over my heart. I went to the door of the instrument room. Noel had gone to the percussion section to join several students in a game of Speed. They had turned the big bass drum sideways and were slapping cards down on it, fwip fwip fwip, then lunging to grab the stack. “Welcome to Fiasco High School, home of the Debacles!” one of them shouted, and the others laughed. I loved to watch them. I wished I could join them, but I never knew what to say.
Why this unhappy feeling? It felt hard to breathe.
I shook my head and left the instrument room. I must be coming down with something; I would take a zinc lozenge just to be safe.
The morning sky was dark with a thundercloud. The windows were open, letting the humid April wind whistle in and cool the heat of so many bodies crowded in the bandroom. Northwest Missouri was always humid. Rain sprinkled the new spears of grass that pushed through last year's dead blades. Lightning flashed as maples lashed under steel-grey clouds.
Just then the lunch bell rang. Students buzzed around the bandroom, gathering books, putting away nail polish and CD players. Noel picked up his backpack, chatting with his friends. A black fleck bit my heart like a bit of sub-zero emptiness.
I dug my Symphonians notebook out of my backpack and impulsively hugged it to my chest, but this time it didn’t seem to do the trick.
11 September 2006
Where were you when the world stopped turning?
I was working as the horticulturist for Parks. I'd just stopped by one of the baseball fields and checked on some trees that needed work. I was heading out to City Hall and tuned in NPR. They were doing a several-part series on what George W. had been doing for education. "Ha!" I said. "This'll be interesting." Just then they broke in with news that a plane had flown into the WTC. I was like, That pilot must have been blindfolded. How the hell do you crash into a building like that?
Got down to City Hall, turned up the radio, left the truck door open, started weeding geraniums. And then they reported that the second plane had crashed into the second tower. And I just went really still and thought, oh. They did that on purpose. And I wondered what the heck we were in for. And I thought, Well, I guess I'm not going to hear the rest of that education report.
Switched stations on the radio all morning, finally settled on an ABC affiliate with Peter Jennings, who I like, and heard about the tower coming down, something that I could not imagine until I went home for lunch to cuddle my little girl, who was three months old, and saw the footage on TV, and it was awful. My dad was a war baby, I was a war baby, and now my girl was born into a war.
The two-way radio at work was silent all day. Some folks came outside from City Hall to pray. All the blinds in the windows were closed. I was wondering what kind of plane would be able to clear Museum Hill and hit a three-story building. But all day I pulled weeds as best I could and listened to the radio. There was no place on the dial that was playing any music: just dire news pouring out of the speakers. Blue sky, lovely weather, little sparrows hopping around under the truck. So weird. Then after work, horrendous lines at the gas pumps, and I sat in them.
But several days later, when the Daily Show came back on, Jon Stewart said, "No, humor is not dead," and my husband and I cheered.
So where were you?
Got down to City Hall, turned up the radio, left the truck door open, started weeding geraniums. And then they reported that the second plane had crashed into the second tower. And I just went really still and thought, oh. They did that on purpose. And I wondered what the heck we were in for. And I thought, Well, I guess I'm not going to hear the rest of that education report.
Switched stations on the radio all morning, finally settled on an ABC affiliate with Peter Jennings, who I like, and heard about the tower coming down, something that I could not imagine until I went home for lunch to cuddle my little girl, who was three months old, and saw the footage on TV, and it was awful. My dad was a war baby, I was a war baby, and now my girl was born into a war.
The two-way radio at work was silent all day. Some folks came outside from City Hall to pray. All the blinds in the windows were closed. I was wondering what kind of plane would be able to clear Museum Hill and hit a three-story building. But all day I pulled weeds as best I could and listened to the radio. There was no place on the dial that was playing any music: just dire news pouring out of the speakers. Blue sky, lovely weather, little sparrows hopping around under the truck. So weird. Then after work, horrendous lines at the gas pumps, and I sat in them.
But several days later, when the Daily Show came back on, Jon Stewart said, "No, humor is not dead," and my husband and I cheered.
So where were you?
07 September 2006
Checking in!
I'm not dropping out or anything. I've just been doing a lot of overtime over at the Angus Journal. I saw that my name is already on the masthead of the most recent issue. How about that!
So far it's been proofing sale books all day. But I really like proofreading. It's nice and quiet, I do my best to be sure all the info is accurate, and sometimes you have to do a little detective work. Also they give you breaks and quite a few folks will go outside and walk for 15 minutes and I go with them, and I've noticed that the little pooch in my tummy seems to have shrunk a little bit, though the scale says I'm still the same weight. But I do like walking.
The main drawback is that I'm stuck in a chair all day. Sometimes I stand up while I'm proofing just to get out of the chair. I wish there were a way I could proof while jumping up and down, but I doubt that my cubicle-mate would care for that. Also it would look weird.
BUT if I find myself falling asleep at the desk, I go make hot tea (yum!). And if that doesn't work, I'll go to the basement and run a few wind sprints, and that usually does the trick.
So far it's been proofing sale books all day. But I really like proofreading. It's nice and quiet, I do my best to be sure all the info is accurate, and sometimes you have to do a little detective work. Also they give you breaks and quite a few folks will go outside and walk for 15 minutes and I go with them, and I've noticed that the little pooch in my tummy seems to have shrunk a little bit, though the scale says I'm still the same weight. But I do like walking.
The main drawback is that I'm stuck in a chair all day. Sometimes I stand up while I'm proofing just to get out of the chair. I wish there were a way I could proof while jumping up and down, but I doubt that my cubicle-mate would care for that. Also it would look weird.
BUT if I find myself falling asleep at the desk, I go make hot tea (yum!). And if that doesn't work, I'll go to the basement and run a few wind sprints, and that usually does the trick.
02 September 2006
Music! Sweet music! Music everywhere!
| Current music: | O Holy Night -- John Berry |
A meme I found over at That Girlie Girl's page. And though I need to be working on the story I gave in because it's about MUSIC.
**********
Open iTunes/iPod or Windows Media Player to answer the following. Go to your library. Answer, no matter how embarrassing it is.
How many songs? 864 on my playlist, 3188 songs when I include my husband's list.
Sort by artist:
First artist: ABBA
Last artist: ZZ Top
Sort by song title:
First: 'Deed I Do -- Jay McShann
'Round Midnight -- Theolonious Monk
Last: Zimmer Imagines Heaven -- Paul Zimmer
Youth of the Nation -- POD
Sort by time:
Shortest Song: Let Me Be Your Hog -- Weird Al Yankovic (:16)
How Poetry Comes to Me -- Gary Snyder (:17)
Longest Song: Le Boeuf Sur le Toit (The Ox is on the Roof) -- Darius Milhaus (18:45)
Macarthur Park Suite -- Donna Summer (17:36) whoo!
First Album: '80's Soft Sides with "Hold Me Now" (Thompson Twins)
Last Album: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow (Kenny Loggins)
First song that comes up on Shuffle: "Sweet Dreams" by Air Supply
Then "She Still Thinks I Care" -- George Jones
Top songs played on the computer --
29 plays for "A Song for You" -- Ray Charles
29 for "Let Me Be Your Hog" -- Weird Al Yankovic
26 for "Brick by Brick" -- Kelley Hunt (my daughter likes that one and me too)
26 for "Simon Smith and His Amazing Dancing Bear" -- the Muppets (I play it for me; my girl's ambivalent about it; she prefers "Manah Manah")
26 for "Shining Star" -- Earth Wind and Fire
How many songs come up when you search for "sex?"
1 -- "All My Pretty Ones" -- Anne Sexton
How many songs come up when you search for "death?"
1-- "O Death" -- Ralph Stanley
How many songs come up when you search for "love?"
66, including "That's the Way Love Goes" by Merle Haggard, "We Live for Love" by Pat Benetar, "Never my Love" by Kurt Elling, and "Sailing" by Christopher Cross (??)
How many songs come up when you search for "you?" 86
Including "If You Could Read My Mind" -- Gordon Lightfoot
How many songs come up when you search for "why?" 6
Including "Don't Ask Me Why" by Asleep at the Wheel and "Why Do I Love You?" by Kelley Hunt
How many songs come up when you search for "God?" 4
Including "Thank God and Greyhound You're Gone!" by Roy Clark
How many songs come up when you search for "crazy?" 2
"I Go Crazy" by Paul Davis and "Crazy Love" by Poco
How many songs come up when you search for "Certified Angus Beef!"
I just stuck that in there.
How many songs come up when you search for "f***?" 0, duh.
17 August 2006
High school meme!
Sheesh, I can't believe I'm doing this meme. Oh well, first time for everything.
HIGH SCHOOL
1. Who was your best friend?
Probably Kelly Neel. We didn't talk a whole lot but I really liked her and she was so nice to me. I didn't really have a best best friend since I was so self-conscious and afraid of rejection.
2. What sports did you play?
Ha ha! Jumping to conclusions.
3. What kind of car did you drive?
A 1976 Toyota Corolla station wagon, but being a Toyota it was a short one.
4. It's Friday night, where were you?
At home trying to write something, or listening to the radio. I never went out. Or practicing hymns at church, or figuring out new registrations for the organ and figuring out how to play it.
5. Were you a party animal?
Ha ha! No.
6. Were you considered a flirt?
Like I talked to people!
7. Ever skip school?
Nope. I was scared that something terrible would happen if I did and I would be banned for life, or some damn thing.
9. Were you a nerd?
I was too shy and quiet to be a nerd. But I was a band geek, playing bass clarinet, piano, tenor sax (briefly), and singing alto. Does that count?
10. Ever get suspended/expelled?
No. I did get into a fight with a girl in the library once, though. She was saying mean things to me, and I think I was leaving, but then this troublemaker kid threw gum in my hair, and I thought she did it, so I rushed her and the next thing I knew I was in a headlock. But I didn't get suspended, probably because I had no record.
11. Can you sing the Alma mater?
Yes, all of it.
12. Who was your favorite teacher?
Mrs. Tucker, my English teacher. She'd read my stories and share Tennyson and other good writers with me. She always had time to talk. So maybe she was my best friend.
13. Favorite class?
Band. Also English Lit was fun. I could recite the beginning of Canterbury Tales in Middle English (I'd recorded Garrison Keillor reciting it on "A Prairie Home Companion" during one of his monologues and got the text and learned how to do it.). And lit was just my thing.
14. What was your school's full name?
Savannah High School
15. School mascot?
A Savage. (Sorry.)
16. Did you go to Prom?
No. Like I'd go to a dance, or go out with boys. And paying MONEY to go to a dance? Are you kidding? What's the big deal about prom, anyway? I didn't miss it. I was like a nun or something.
17. If you could go back and do it over, would you?
You know, I say no, but then again, I want to, because I'd like to know how much I'm getting right about myself as a high schooler in my stories and where I'm off the mark. I feel like there's so much I'm forgetting about being a high schooler, and I wish I could go back and relive it. But then I'd be violating the Prime Directive and changing everything based on what I've learned since then. Shoot, I could go back and shout down those girls who used to give me hell in gym class, and I'd go to the people who wanted friends and befriend them and start a writer's group, and I'd come right out and tell my man that I was really interested in him, but I'd still write him letters. So hell yeah I'd go back!
18. What do you remember most about graduation?
When the class went to their seats, my friend and I got in the wrong row, but while everybody had their heads bowed for the prayer, we ran over to the right spots.
19. Favorite memory of your Senior Year?
Running around with the crazy guys in the school play. That was fun. Everybody would tickle Dexter behind the knees until he fell down laughing and I'd wade into the crowd to protect him. Making songlists and sound effects for the play. The pizza party we had afterward.
20. Were you ever posted up on the senior wall?
What's that?
21. Did you have a job?
I delivered the newspaper every morning to the residents of Nodaway. About 16 people. I did that since 1983-4. Senior year I got a job at the greenhouse, planting marigolds, tomatoes, and petunias and watering stuff.
22. Whom did you date?
I didn't date anybody, not until I started college. But I did fall in love with a few people. But I fell in love with this one guy on 31 March 1988, just before he graduated, so I visited him at Wal-Mart and wrote him letters. Finally he got a clue. We got married in 1995, so that worked out.
23. Where did you go most often for lunch?
I'd eat real fast in the cafeteria, then run over to the library and read.
24. Have you gained weight since then?
Duh! About 20 or 30 pounds!
25. What did you do after graduation?
Went to NWMSU, pined away for my sweetie, got into a relationship with the wrong guy, he flunked out of college, I started going out with my sweetie, got a house to rent in Nodaway, got a cat.
26. Who was your crush?
I had a crush on several guys over the years. One was a exchange student from Sweden, one was a nice ag student, one was my man, one was a nice dark-haired guy.
27. When did you graduate?
1989! Fool.
HIGH SCHOOL
1. Who was your best friend?
Probably Kelly Neel. We didn't talk a whole lot but I really liked her and she was so nice to me. I didn't really have a best best friend since I was so self-conscious and afraid of rejection.
2. What sports did you play?
Ha ha! Jumping to conclusions.
3. What kind of car did you drive?
A 1976 Toyota Corolla station wagon, but being a Toyota it was a short one.
4. It's Friday night, where were you?
At home trying to write something, or listening to the radio. I never went out. Or practicing hymns at church, or figuring out new registrations for the organ and figuring out how to play it.
5. Were you a party animal?
Ha ha! No.
6. Were you considered a flirt?
Like I talked to people!
7. Ever skip school?
Nope. I was scared that something terrible would happen if I did and I would be banned for life, or some damn thing.
9. Were you a nerd?
I was too shy and quiet to be a nerd. But I was a band geek, playing bass clarinet, piano, tenor sax (briefly), and singing alto. Does that count?
10. Ever get suspended/expelled?
No. I did get into a fight with a girl in the library once, though. She was saying mean things to me, and I think I was leaving, but then this troublemaker kid threw gum in my hair, and I thought she did it, so I rushed her and the next thing I knew I was in a headlock. But I didn't get suspended, probably because I had no record.
11. Can you sing the Alma mater?
Yes, all of it.
12. Who was your favorite teacher?
Mrs. Tucker, my English teacher. She'd read my stories and share Tennyson and other good writers with me. She always had time to talk. So maybe she was my best friend.
13. Favorite class?
Band. Also English Lit was fun. I could recite the beginning of Canterbury Tales in Middle English (I'd recorded Garrison Keillor reciting it on "A Prairie Home Companion" during one of his monologues and got the text and learned how to do it.). And lit was just my thing.
14. What was your school's full name?
Savannah High School
15. School mascot?
A Savage. (Sorry.)
16. Did you go to Prom?
No. Like I'd go to a dance, or go out with boys. And paying MONEY to go to a dance? Are you kidding? What's the big deal about prom, anyway? I didn't miss it. I was like a nun or something.
17. If you could go back and do it over, would you?
You know, I say no, but then again, I want to, because I'd like to know how much I'm getting right about myself as a high schooler in my stories and where I'm off the mark. I feel like there's so much I'm forgetting about being a high schooler, and I wish I could go back and relive it. But then I'd be violating the Prime Directive and changing everything based on what I've learned since then. Shoot, I could go back and shout down those girls who used to give me hell in gym class, and I'd go to the people who wanted friends and befriend them and start a writer's group, and I'd come right out and tell my man that I was really interested in him, but I'd still write him letters. So hell yeah I'd go back!
18. What do you remember most about graduation?
When the class went to their seats, my friend and I got in the wrong row, but while everybody had their heads bowed for the prayer, we ran over to the right spots.
19. Favorite memory of your Senior Year?
Running around with the crazy guys in the school play. That was fun. Everybody would tickle Dexter behind the knees until he fell down laughing and I'd wade into the crowd to protect him. Making songlists and sound effects for the play. The pizza party we had afterward.
20. Were you ever posted up on the senior wall?
What's that?
21. Did you have a job?
I delivered the newspaper every morning to the residents of Nodaway. About 16 people. I did that since 1983-4. Senior year I got a job at the greenhouse, planting marigolds, tomatoes, and petunias and watering stuff.
22. Whom did you date?
I didn't date anybody, not until I started college. But I did fall in love with a few people. But I fell in love with this one guy on 31 March 1988, just before he graduated, so I visited him at Wal-Mart and wrote him letters. Finally he got a clue. We got married in 1995, so that worked out.
23. Where did you go most often for lunch?
I'd eat real fast in the cafeteria, then run over to the library and read.
24. Have you gained weight since then?
Duh! About 20 or 30 pounds!
25. What did you do after graduation?
Went to NWMSU, pined away for my sweetie, got into a relationship with the wrong guy, he flunked out of college, I started going out with my sweetie, got a house to rent in Nodaway, got a cat.
26. Who was your crush?
I had a crush on several guys over the years. One was a exchange student from Sweden, one was a nice ag student, one was my man, one was a nice dark-haired guy.
27. When did you graduate?
1989! Fool.
Working woman!
Well, I'm now a working stiff. I took the proofreading job, though I regretted turning down the school jobs. The paycheck won me over: all three jobs paid approximately the same, but with the school jobs, I wouldn't be paid over the summer, and that freaked me out.
So now I look over sales listings for Angus cattle all day, which actually is kind of peaceful and quiet work, though I have to be careful not to strain my eyes. There are one or two few freaky things about the cattle industry, the freakiest being this constant mention of scrotal measurements and, um, semen. But keep in mind that if I were writing something directed toward rose breeders, they'd be talking about pollen constantly. These guys are just really into increasing their live stock. REALLY into it.
In other news, Symphonians has increased its characters of color -- including the main love interest, Noel. And Yvonne's Asian, and Roderick is part Spanish. It ain't much, but it's a start.
I have 36 pages left to revise before I send it off to one of my critique partners to critique. The way things have been going, that 36 pages is probably going to stretch out to close to 50 by the time I get done with them. The novel's already 336 pages long, and it's got me a little worried.
I'm getting off the computer before my eyeballs fall out.
So now I look over sales listings for Angus cattle all day, which actually is kind of peaceful and quiet work, though I have to be careful not to strain my eyes. There are one or two few freaky things about the cattle industry, the freakiest being this constant mention of scrotal measurements and, um, semen. But keep in mind that if I were writing something directed toward rose breeders, they'd be talking about pollen constantly. These guys are just really into increasing their live stock. REALLY into it.
In other news, Symphonians has increased its characters of color -- including the main love interest, Noel. And Yvonne's Asian, and Roderick is part Spanish. It ain't much, but it's a start.
I have 36 pages left to revise before I send it off to one of my critique partners to critique. The way things have been going, that 36 pages is probably going to stretch out to close to 50 by the time I get done with them. The novel's already 336 pages long, and it's got me a little worried.
I'm getting off the computer before my eyeballs fall out.
10 August 2006
Maybe too good.
So me and the kid are heading down the aisles at Wal-Mart, picking up some mandarin oranges when my cell starts singing its song. I answer: It's the lady at the staffing agency. I'd been passed over for a proofreading job just a few days ago. Now they've decided to hire two people instead of one; could I start tomorrow or Monday? It's full time.
I chose Monday so I can get things ("things" being the kid) lined out tomorrow. But I'm a little torn. I'd like the HS paraprofessional job except this "you don't get paid all summer" thing is scary, and the HS job pays less than the proofreading job.
But I love to work with HS kids -- I get good story ideas from them. Proofreading would not be as good for my story -- stare at a computer all day and see how thrilled you are about sitting down at a computer when you get home.
And another worry ... this is a temp position. What if, after 90 days, they say, "Okay, things have leveled out now, we don't need two people filling this position" and then they let me go. School will have started by then, so no para position to fall into. Aiee!
I'll be asking a lot of questions and keeping the radar up, but I'll take the proofreading job. Fingers crossed.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch ... it looks like those storms they're having around Topeka are heading this way. We could use the rain! But gaah, you need gills to breathe outside, humidity feels like it's almost 100 percent. God bless air conditioning.
I chose Monday so I can get things ("things" being the kid) lined out tomorrow. But I'm a little torn. I'd like the HS paraprofessional job except this "you don't get paid all summer" thing is scary, and the HS job pays less than the proofreading job.
But I love to work with HS kids -- I get good story ideas from them. Proofreading would not be as good for my story -- stare at a computer all day and see how thrilled you are about sitting down at a computer when you get home.
And another worry ... this is a temp position. What if, after 90 days, they say, "Okay, things have leveled out now, we don't need two people filling this position" and then they let me go. School will have started by then, so no para position to fall into. Aiee!
I'll be asking a lot of questions and keeping the radar up, but I'll take the proofreading job. Fingers crossed.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch ... it looks like those storms they're having around Topeka are heading this way. We could use the rain! But gaah, you need gills to breathe outside, humidity feels like it's almost 100 percent. God bless air conditioning.
09 August 2006
MUCH better now.
Finally got hired for a paraprofessional position over at Lafayette HS. And the very same day I got an e-mail from somebody asking if I'd be interested in writing some articles for a horticultural business. So now I'm breathing more easily. I'm still a little on edge -- I still can't quite shake the feeling that I'm going to somehow get the rug pulled out from under my feet again -- but I'm hoping that as I get details ironed out that the feeling will subside.
In the meantime, I'm making good progress with Symphonians. I'm on the second-to-last chapter, which is somewhere around the 300-word mark (the novel at this time is 320 words long -- I'm going to need to cut stuff).
It just struck me that I've sped up the pacing in this last bit. Like I'm getting close to the end, and the closer I get, the more I go, "Hurry up, let's finish it!" and the scenes move faster than they should because of that.
I was also wondering if I should drop a lot of money and have Eileen at Firstpages give me an overview of the MS. To have her expertise would help. But I keep telling myself, "Why spend all that money if I can do it myself?" Or I could send it back to FSG and get another reader's report for free, though it would take a while. And I want so badly to move on to another novel. I'm sitting on so many stories I'd like to work on. And there' s one story I want to get started on.
I want to retell Dante's Vita Nuova from a different framework -- not the usual medieval European fantasy backdrop, but from a different worldview, like from a Native American view. Ages ago, there was a huge Mississippian city near where St. Louis is today. Why not set up a fantasy on this side of the ocean? But I'm going to mix up the mythological backgrounds somewhat, so I can play around with stuff more. And I'm going to make all the characters black or tan. I want to bust up all the fantasy cliches I can.
But boy, it's hard to write up a fantasy when you move outside the template. My mind keeps wanting brick buildings and narrow cobblestone streets like they have in Europe. And I'm like, No, I want to do it differently!
So we'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, I'm making good progress with Symphonians. I'm on the second-to-last chapter, which is somewhere around the 300-word mark (the novel at this time is 320 words long -- I'm going to need to cut stuff).
It just struck me that I've sped up the pacing in this last bit. Like I'm getting close to the end, and the closer I get, the more I go, "Hurry up, let's finish it!" and the scenes move faster than they should because of that.
I was also wondering if I should drop a lot of money and have Eileen at Firstpages give me an overview of the MS. To have her expertise would help. But I keep telling myself, "Why spend all that money if I can do it myself?" Or I could send it back to FSG and get another reader's report for free, though it would take a while. And I want so badly to move on to another novel. I'm sitting on so many stories I'd like to work on. And there' s one story I want to get started on.
I want to retell Dante's Vita Nuova from a different framework -- not the usual medieval European fantasy backdrop, but from a different worldview, like from a Native American view. Ages ago, there was a huge Mississippian city near where St. Louis is today. Why not set up a fantasy on this side of the ocean? But I'm going to mix up the mythological backgrounds somewhat, so I can play around with stuff more. And I'm going to make all the characters black or tan. I want to bust up all the fantasy cliches I can.
But boy, it's hard to write up a fantasy when you move outside the template. My mind keeps wanting brick buildings and narrow cobblestone streets like they have in Europe. And I'm like, No, I want to do it differently!
So we'll see how that goes.
04 August 2006
Not so good today, though.
The interesting thing about this depression is that my Symphonians novel is dealing with depression as well as symphony musicians, lovestruck shy people, responsibility, ethics, etc. And I'm seeing that the way I'm handling my depression now is different than the way I would have handled it back in high school and college.
Mainly it's the fact that I have my kid here. I must bestir myself and be sure she's fed, control my snappishness and irritablility, and not turn into a lump the way I'd like to. In the old days, I would have just given in to my sad mood and laid around and been mopy. But I also recognize, though virtue of past experience (!! should have been a college prof), that to be a lump all day is not getting anything done, is not good for me. But the kid's really been a motivating factor to get over this depression.
I can't hide it from her that I'm depressed; that would be stupid. It's kind of hard to miss that I'm depressed: I lay myhead on the table during suppertime and mumble a lot and I don't smile constantly as I usually do. So if I told my kid, "I'm fine!" that would not be keeping it real, as Carl Rogers says. Relationships must be honest, feelings must be acknowledged. I tell her I'm not feeling well, that I'm depressed, and that means I'm sad and mopy a lot, but I've seen the doctor and I'm doing the things she told me to do because I want to get better and get zany and smiley again.
Not to mention that depression is a general pain in the ass.
But I've been writing down how I feel in hopes that these feelings will be useful in the novel. Might as well get some good out of it.
Mainly it's the fact that I have my kid here. I must bestir myself and be sure she's fed, control my snappishness and irritablility, and not turn into a lump the way I'd like to. In the old days, I would have just given in to my sad mood and laid around and been mopy. But I also recognize, though virtue of past experience (!! should have been a college prof), that to be a lump all day is not getting anything done, is not good for me. But the kid's really been a motivating factor to get over this depression.
I can't hide it from her that I'm depressed; that would be stupid. It's kind of hard to miss that I'm depressed: I lay myhead on the table during suppertime and mumble a lot and I don't smile constantly as I usually do. So if I told my kid, "I'm fine!" that would not be keeping it real, as Carl Rogers says. Relationships must be honest, feelings must be acknowledged. I tell her I'm not feeling well, that I'm depressed, and that means I'm sad and mopy a lot, but I've seen the doctor and I'm doing the things she told me to do because I want to get better and get zany and smiley again.
Not to mention that depression is a general pain in the ass.
But I've been writing down how I feel in hopes that these feelings will be useful in the novel. Might as well get some good out of it.
03 August 2006
Getting better.
Got that Genesis song playing, "It's Gonna Get Better," and finally. Went to the doc today to get this depression taken care of, and now I'm starting to feel better. Also ran around with my husband today and we got some stuff done, and now I'm feeling like I want to run errands and get things done again. It's nice how something so simple can have such a big effect. But boy, I don't want to crash like that again, it's been ages since I felt that low.
Also on the bright side, I've been able to work a lot on the Symphonians story because of this depression. Concentrating on getting the words written, trying to visualize scenes, and making word choices has really helped me when my brain just wouldn't leave off. I have moved ahead so fast. I have left behind the omnipresent Chapter 16 (at last I realized that I needed to cut the last five pages and replaced them with a half-page of strong text and I was DONE with that) and now I'm working on Chapter, I don't know, 25 (I keep adding in chapters and switching chapters around so I don't know where the heck I am). Anyway, it's the third chapter from the end. Yay!
Anyway, more progress.
Also on the bright side, I've been able to work a lot on the Symphonians story because of this depression. Concentrating on getting the words written, trying to visualize scenes, and making word choices has really helped me when my brain just wouldn't leave off. I have moved ahead so fast. I have left behind the omnipresent Chapter 16 (at last I realized that I needed to cut the last five pages and replaced them with a half-page of strong text and I was DONE with that) and now I'm working on Chapter, I don't know, 25 (I keep adding in chapters and switching chapters around so I don't know where the heck I am). Anyway, it's the third chapter from the end. Yay!
Anyway, more progress.
01 August 2006
I need an antidepressant.
Gloom, despair , and agony on me!
Deep, dark depression, excessive misery!
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.
Gloom, despair, and agony on me!
I hate when I don't win stuff. And I know it's the synopsis that got me. Remember how agent Regina Brooks told me, "Girl, your synopsis is confusing as heck!" I'm sure that's what happened here. Where's the bourbon!
And the job search sucks! And my old cat died and I still feel sad! And I can't figure out where $100 of my money went the other day! Not that I need it, ha ha! But on the bright side, my kid's over at her friend's house playing, and I can work. And my critique buddies Shevi and Angela won stuff. So that's nice. I'm really, really, really trying to be happy but I'm afraid that right now I'm in this Anne Lamott funk.
I just need to do a little primal scream therapy and then I'll feel better. And also find that $100.
Edit 10 minutes later -- The credit union just called -- they're going to fix it! They're going to credit my account! That's so nice of them!
So one thing is going right.
Deep, dark depression, excessive misery!
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.
Gloom, despair, and agony on me!
I hate when I don't win stuff. And I know it's the synopsis that got me. Remember how agent Regina Brooks told me, "Girl, your synopsis is confusing as heck!" I'm sure that's what happened here. Where's the bourbon!
And the job search sucks! And my old cat died and I still feel sad! And I can't figure out where $100 of my money went the other day! Not that I need it, ha ha! But on the bright side, my kid's over at her friend's house playing, and I can work. And my critique buddies Shevi and Angela won stuff. So that's nice. I'm really, really, really trying to be happy but I'm afraid that right now I'm in this Anne Lamott funk.
I just need to do a little primal scream therapy and then I'll feel better. And also find that $100.
Edit 10 minutes later -- The credit union just called -- they're going to fix it! They're going to credit my account! That's so nice of them!
So one thing is going right.
31 July 2006
Progress!
Finally, I’m getting somewhere. Remember that “let’s write a half-ream on my characters” thing, where I ran screaming into the street? Guess what, it’s starting to work! Even though I have only 39 pages so far.
I have also been think a lot about Kay’s motives in Carter’s character sketch, since I am still having a hard time understanding how she could be so generous to Carter while on some level realizing that this whole relationship was not working out.
Now that I have some momentum, I’m starting to enjoy this delving into character. And the
That night, he told me about his 'dark side.' Told me how much he needed me to help him fight his demons. He believed I could do it, because oh how he loved me, and he knew I loved him too.
I loved the nobility of my sacrifice. I would be an angel, wrapping my wings around him, though I wore the ashes of my old love on my forehead, invisible and pure. I would raise him up, I would make him a new man, I would save his life.
Except the next morning I woke up depressed. At breakfast I shunned people and glowered at my cereal alone. I kept going over last night, hoping to revive that sunshine-and-roses feeling I’d had, but my heart was too busy sinking through the ocean to help. Why had I nearly fainted when he told me that story? Out of pity? Why that excited laugh from Carter?
After breakfast, I came out of the
Except I suddenly felt that my show was fake. That I was lying with my whole body. I fought to ignore it, to keep smiling, to keep my arms open. He was going to see that I honored him, that I would sacrifice myself for him, whether I liked it or not.
28 July 2006
More on (trying to) find books of color.
I just ran into Wawa Moore's post about checking out the huge display of YA books at Borders and not seeing a whole lot for people of any color, and how glaringly obvious this need is.
Let's get to work, people!
Let's get to work, people!
23 July 2006
One woman facing down a sea of red.
Here's a blog post I'm linking to so I can be sure to check it out in more detail later. Paula over at Paula's JORT (Journal of Random Thoughts) is talking about having received her editorial letter and marked up MS! Man, what a ride.
I'm thinking, oh this would be so cool! But then I'd have to do all that work. Waaah! I'm such a wuss.
I'm thinking, oh this would be so cool! But then I'd have to do all that work. Waaah! I'm such a wuss.
21 July 2006
Stop taking Harry Truman's name in vain.
What is it with this damn president Bush who has to invoke Truman at every whipstitch? Every time Bush compares himself to Truman, I feel a rumble in the ground which is My Man From Independence, two hours down the road, spinning in his grave.
I was just reading this article from the Washington Post called "Hijacking Harry Truman," and totally agree with it. And I found myself adding a few more reasons why this dolt we call a president should be violently restrained from saying he's following Truman's footsteps.
First: this little issue of a war record. In WWI, Truman served as captain of Battery D of the 2nd Battalian, 129th Field Artillery. Served with distinction, always in the front lines with his soldiers even when all hell was breaking loose. And when WWII began, the 57-year-old Truman went to then-General Marshall to re-enlist. General Marshall said Truman would be better off staying where he was.
What did Bush do during Vietnam? To dodge the draft, he went to the Texas Air National Guard. He tested in the 25th percentile out of 100, then leaped ahead of thousands of other Guardsmen (thank God for special privilege) and was given a pilot's post.
Now, hello, Truman would have scorned such use of influence. Back in Kansas City, during the 20's, he worked with Pendergast, the city Boss. Pendergast helped Truman get elected as judge; he wanted a little favoritism in return. "The Boss wanted me to give a lot of crooked contractors the inside and I couldn't," Truman wrote.
"Didn't I tell you boys," Pendergast spouted, "He's the contrariest cuss in Missouri." And then Pendergast never asked Harry to do anything illegal after that.
As far as Bush's record on using influence to his profit, cripes don't get me started.
Second, let's look at Truman's record as a senator. When WWII started and the big corporations started dogging the Department of Defense for contracts at insane prices, Truman started up the Truman Committee to make sure the nation's money was spent wisely. His committee inspected war plants, army posts, and strenuously investigated defense production. They found companies producing faulty airplane engines and ships that broke in two, and made them pay. The Truman Committee's work may have saved the country at least $15 million.
Of course Bush saved the country more money. Somewhere. I don't know where, actually, but that doesn't matter, does it?
Then there's this issue of fighting a pre-emptive war. Guys. The Korean War was not pre-emptive. Communist North Korea marched on U.S.-occupied South Korea. Truman didn't want to start this, which he felt could escalate into WWIII, especially with Russia just waiting for their chance. War was the last thing he wanted.
And then General MacArthur wanted to make the war bigger, wanted to take on the Chinese as well. He wanted to drop atomic bombs on China. So of course Truman did.
No he didn't! He kicked MacArthur's ass out of Korea and replaced him with General Ridgeway! Got a lot of flack for that, but Truman didn't want a war on two fronts, didn't want a war that would create enormous deficits and loss of lives.
Just like George.
The kicker: in the 1948 presidential election, whose side would Bush have been on, Dewey's or Truman's? Hell, he would have voted for Dewey, of course, that arrogant old automaton who was too full of his own ideas to even talk with the common people. Bush would not have voted for Truman, he would have been too busy denouncing him with the rest of the press and the Republicans and the Dixiecrats.
Well, the feeling was mutual. Truman on Dewey, 1948:
"This soft talk and double talk, this combination of crafty silence and resounding misrepresentation, is an insult to the intelligence of the American voter. It proceeds upon the assumption that you can fool all the people -- or enough of them -- all the time."
Or on the Republican doctrine:
"If you can't convince them, confuse them."
Or Republicans in general:
"They dare not answer me. They are afraid to get on the issues. They talk about home, and mother, what a nice country it is, 'you can trust us.'
"You can't trust 'em."
And that just about sums it up, people!
Current music: "Where Are You, Harry Truman" -- Chicago.
19 July 2006
Them that don't ask don't get.
Got my contract for my article today, saying "Sign this here and we'll send you your check." Which made me feel dumb, because just yesterday I hassled my poor editor, saying, "Give me that big fat money!" Hit me with a brick.
But when I read the contract, I said, "Uh-oh." The first thing I ran across was the dreaded "hold harmless" clause. That's a clause that basically says that the author agrees to hold the Publisher harmless if a smackdown takes place because of something she's written. If the author agrees to such a clause, then it's the author who has to pay all legal expenses.
I mean, I can't imagine anyone's going to sue over this article. "OMG I hate legumes! I'm going to sue!" But when the world has gone mad, cover your ass.
And secondly I saw that the contract said I was selling all rights. Might this lead to trouble when I'm writing my soilbuilding book? Because I was going to discuss using alfalfa in the garden, and it's hard to know where the demarcation is between what is their article and their information and what would be mine. I'd just as soon not even go there.
So I called up the assistant editor in charge of contracts and said, "Hello! I got a contract today and wondered if I could strike a clause or two."
She said, "You can change anything you like."
"I'd really like to strike the 'hold harmless' clause." And then I got silly and said, "And also let's raise the payment to a million dollars, stat!"
She went off in gales of laughter. "I'd like to see legal when I send this contract over!"
"Okay, let's do it!"
But then we settled down, and she said she'd send me a new contract with the changes I'd requested. I'd get first rights, which revert back to me upon publication. (Note to legal: rights listed here are not actual rights until I sign said contract.)
This is going to slow my big fat money down by a few days, but I'll just have to put up with that.
Ha ha! The i-Pod is playing the theme from "Wonder Woman!" "In her satin tights, fighting for your rights!" That's so me! Except you'd never see me wearing satin tights, of course.
But when I read the contract, I said, "Uh-oh." The first thing I ran across was the dreaded "hold harmless" clause. That's a clause that basically says that the author agrees to hold the Publisher harmless if a smackdown takes place because of something she's written. If the author agrees to such a clause, then it's the author who has to pay all legal expenses.
I mean, I can't imagine anyone's going to sue over this article. "OMG I hate legumes! I'm going to sue!" But when the world has gone mad, cover your ass.
And secondly I saw that the contract said I was selling all rights. Might this lead to trouble when I'm writing my soilbuilding book? Because I was going to discuss using alfalfa in the garden, and it's hard to know where the demarcation is between what is their article and their information and what would be mine. I'd just as soon not even go there.
So I called up the assistant editor in charge of contracts and said, "Hello! I got a contract today and wondered if I could strike a clause or two."
She said, "You can change anything you like."
"I'd really like to strike the 'hold harmless' clause." And then I got silly and said, "And also let's raise the payment to a million dollars, stat!"
She went off in gales of laughter. "I'd like to see legal when I send this contract over!"
"Okay, let's do it!"
But then we settled down, and she said she'd send me a new contract with the changes I'd requested. I'd get first rights, which revert back to me upon publication. (Note to legal: rights listed here are not actual rights until I sign said contract.)
This is going to slow my big fat money down by a few days, but I'll just have to put up with that.
Ha ha! The i-Pod is playing the theme from "Wonder Woman!" "In her satin tights, fighting for your rights!" That's so me! Except you'd never see me wearing satin tights, of course.
15 July 2006
A little housecleaning.
Taking a break from the house for a moment to check my e-mail (there is none; nobody loves me) and post. Miss Thang's birthday party is tomorrow, and she's going to be five. "Mommy, I can't wait!" she told me with the intensity of a little kid that's about to explode. She has also been alerting total strangers to the upcoming festivities, probably so they can bring a present too.
Except she's stomping down the hall right now going "Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!" in a Santa voice. "Here's your presents!" She's pretty fun.
Got the kitchen and the living room finished. Still need to clean out the refrigerator, the bathroom, and re-clean up Sophie's room. In the course of cleaning the other rooms, all this stuff moved back there.
Going to totally skip the office and our bedroom. I'll keep those doors closed so I can just shove stuff out of sight, if necessary, at the last minute. Also my husband has some of his piles (some??!) back here and I am not even going to bother.
Back to the old grind.
Except she's stomping down the hall right now going "Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!" in a Santa voice. "Here's your presents!" She's pretty fun.
Got the kitchen and the living room finished. Still need to clean out the refrigerator, the bathroom, and re-clean up Sophie's room. In the course of cleaning the other rooms, all this stuff moved back there.
Going to totally skip the office and our bedroom. I'll keep those doors closed so I can just shove stuff out of sight, if necessary, at the last minute. Also my husband has some of his piles (some??!) back here and I am not even going to bother.
Back to the old grind.
13 July 2006
Finally!
I've been wanting to print off the first 50 pages of Part 2 of Symphonians for ages. At first I was like, "Let's not print yet, let's do as much as we can on the computer only." But then I hit this wall. In my mind, the scenes involving Carter all glommed together and everything ran together, and everything seemed like the same old damned thing, over and over and over.
Okay, so it was time to print. Except ....
Our computer that's hooked up to the printer at home freezes up every time I open MS Word. So I can't print off here. So I take the flash drive to the library to print it off there.
The first time, there are no computers available.
The second time, all I had was a $20 and the machine wouldn't accept it and the librarians had no change. Then before I could run to the post office to get change, the machines shut down because it was 15 minutes before closing time.
The third time, the computers were all full.
The fourth time, I got change. But I was 30 cents short. So I had to run and get it. And when I got back, the change machine had spit out my $5, all in quarters, so I had to redeposit all the quarters. Then it wouldn't accept my 30 cents. So I had to Cntr X several pages, print off the first part, then Cntr V those pages into a new document, and print those.
But the dang thing was printed. Hallelujah. I have GOT to get a job so we can get a printer that hooks up to my laptop.
Anyway, tonight my family went to sleep early, so I spread all 53 pages on the floor and walked about and made notes on overall structure.
I set them out by chapter, since I didn't have floor space for 53 pages all together. Chapter 16 turned out to have 25 pages. Chapter 17 had 16 pages, and Chapter 18 had 11 pages.
It was nice to see everything laid out so neatly on the floor. I could see how many pages each scene got. I could see more clearly the overall impetus of each chapter (if it had one). I could see if a block of pages had lost focus. Or a chapter, for that matter.
I found out that Chapter 16 was pretty strong. Chapter 17 sucked. Chapter 18 went by way too fast, since Kay sees Noel again, and that is rather significant. Yet only three pages out of 11 was devoted to that scene. Hm, more work.
So I feel better now that I have an idea of what needs work and what's in pretty good shape. So that was worth the hassle. Or anyway that's what I keep telling myself!
Music: "Baby Let Your Light Shine Down" by Collective Soul
Okay, so it was time to print. Except ....
Our computer that's hooked up to the printer at home freezes up every time I open MS Word. So I can't print off here. So I take the flash drive to the library to print it off there.
The first time, there are no computers available.
The second time, all I had was a $20 and the machine wouldn't accept it and the librarians had no change. Then before I could run to the post office to get change, the machines shut down because it was 15 minutes before closing time.
The third time, the computers were all full.
The fourth time, I got change. But I was 30 cents short. So I had to run and get it. And when I got back, the change machine had spit out my $5, all in quarters, so I had to redeposit all the quarters. Then it wouldn't accept my 30 cents. So I had to Cntr X several pages, print off the first part, then Cntr V those pages into a new document, and print those.
But the dang thing was printed. Hallelujah. I have GOT to get a job so we can get a printer that hooks up to my laptop.
Anyway, tonight my family went to sleep early, so I spread all 53 pages on the floor and walked about and made notes on overall structure.
I set them out by chapter, since I didn't have floor space for 53 pages all together. Chapter 16 turned out to have 25 pages. Chapter 17 had 16 pages, and Chapter 18 had 11 pages.
It was nice to see everything laid out so neatly on the floor. I could see how many pages each scene got. I could see more clearly the overall impetus of each chapter (if it had one). I could see if a block of pages had lost focus. Or a chapter, for that matter.
I found out that Chapter 16 was pretty strong. Chapter 17 sucked. Chapter 18 went by way too fast, since Kay sees Noel again, and that is rather significant. Yet only three pages out of 11 was devoted to that scene. Hm, more work.
So I feel better now that I have an idea of what needs work and what's in pretty good shape. So that was worth the hassle. Or anyway that's what I keep telling myself!
Music: "Baby Let Your Light Shine Down" by Collective Soul
10 July 2006
Kirk Franklin and Stevie Wonder!
I'm in love ....
Check out their song "Why" off Kirk Franklin's Hero album. Oh MAN. (When you click the link, scroll up just a little so you can access the Hipcast thingie. For some reason the link takes you to the middle of the comments page instead of the top.)
Get up and dance, y'all!
Check out their song "Why" off Kirk Franklin's Hero album. Oh MAN. (When you click the link, scroll up just a little so you can access the Hipcast thingie. For some reason the link takes you to the middle of the comments page instead of the top.)
Get up and dance, y'all!
08 July 2006
Ban this!
Tip of the pen to Bookshelves of Doom for bringing this to light.
Seems that the Wilsona, Ca., School District is banning 23 books and bringing up rules that the library collection must abide by.
In their haste to get books off the shelves, some Clifford and Disney books got swept into the stack. But they'll put those back later, school officials said. However, Clifford, being a naked dog, will have shorts drawn onto his lower body. And Donald Duck ... what's with him, wearing a shirt but no pants??
*scratches head* But don't these school board members have any idea what these middle-school kids are watching on TV at home? And that you can get better, more truthful information about the world from a book? No, wait, books are out to exploit readers, make sex glamorous, make drugs and smoking glamorous. It's like those books with Sarah Jessica Parker and all her friends talking about sex. And there are all these giant explosions and long car chases everywhere in books. You read a book and it makes you get all hopped up and want to go out and wreck stuff.
And that's what happened to me. I read books all the time, and I always got in trouble. From Mom. Because I ... um. Because I spent so much time reading subversive books that I didn't do my chores.
*dead silence*
Um, yeah. I was a bad, bad girl.
On the CD player -- "Ballad of Waterhole #3 (Code of the West)" -- Roger Miller
Seems that the Wilsona, Ca., School District is banning 23 books and bringing up rules that the library collection must abide by.
Books now cannot depict drinking alcohol, smoking, drugs, sex, including "negative sexuality," implied or explicit nudity, cursing, violent crime or weapons, gambling, foul humor and "dark content."Well, that pretty much wiped out the collection. What's negative sexuality, anyway? Is that a grumpy prostitute? Do they write picture books about grumpy prostitutes now? I seem to be missing out on all the fun trends.
"We realize there might be a story about police, but that's not violent crime, that's police doing good," Superintendent Ned McNabb said. "There's no way you can take the judgment out of it. You frame it better so it's easier to know what the guidelines are."Whew! So Officer Buckle and Gloria are safe ... but wait! Isn't that Gloria on the endpapers, smoking a cigarette? And there she is, playing in the microwave oven! And setting her tail on fire! And rolling the police car down the hill! This book has got to go.
Trustees said one rejected book contained an unsavory hero who was a bad role model for children; another was about a warlock, which they said was inappropriate; and others were books with which they were unfamiliar and didn't know whether they promoted good character or conflicted with textbooks.Ban first, read later, maybe. That's the way to do it.
In their haste to get books off the shelves, some Clifford and Disney books got swept into the stack. But they'll put those back later, school officials said. However, Clifford, being a naked dog, will have shorts drawn onto his lower body. And Donald Duck ... what's with him, wearing a shirt but no pants??
The new policy states that library materials must be age-appropriate, taking into consideration the different maturity levels of district students who range in age from 5 to 14.
"For example, most of our elementary students are not dealing with issues of puberty and we do not want to encourage them to try to identify with characters that are," the policy states.
I love how they're trying to protect them from puberty. Makes it all better when the early developers suddenly get hit with it and don't know what the hell to do. (And some kids will start experiencing it in fifth or sixth grade, if I remember correctly.)
"Middle school materials may have a somewhat broader range of information. However, even at the middle school level, there can be a wide range of maturity. Materials for the middle school level should therefore be selected with appropriate limits in mind. An example: romance stories are out - puppy love is okay."Yep! Puppy love sounds just right for the middle school student with a wide range of maturity!
*scratches head* But don't these school board members have any idea what these middle-school kids are watching on TV at home? And that you can get better, more truthful information about the world from a book? No, wait, books are out to exploit readers, make sex glamorous, make drugs and smoking glamorous. It's like those books with Sarah Jessica Parker and all her friends talking about sex. And there are all these giant explosions and long car chases everywhere in books. You read a book and it makes you get all hopped up and want to go out and wreck stuff.
And that's what happened to me. I read books all the time, and I always got in trouble. From Mom. Because I ... um. Because I spent so much time reading subversive books that I didn't do my chores.
*dead silence*
Um, yeah. I was a bad, bad girl.
On the CD player -- "Ballad of Waterhole #3 (Code of the West)" -- Roger Miller
06 July 2006
Symphonians songlist!
Many have asked me about the songs that keep popping up through my Symphonians novel.
Actually, nobody has asked me a damn thing, but that's not going to stop me from making a fool playlist of a lot of the songs that have shown up through the novel. And it's odd that a novel with Symphonians in it has so many blues/rock songs in it. But that's the way it's turned out.
Load this up on your i-Pods, people!
"Brick by Brick" -- Kelley Hunt
"Hurt" -- Johnny Cash
"Take Me For a Little While" -- Coverdale/Page
"Ordinary People -- John Legend
"Musetta's Waltz" -- Puccini
The final so-called aria from Wozzeck -- Berg
"Confessing the Blues" -- Jay McShann
"Roll 'Em, Pete" -- Count Basie
Holst's First and Second Suites (especially the Dargason Fantasy, which gets explicated)
"Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini" -- Rachmaninoff (the supernatural pianist is Ashkenazy)
Bach's Goldberg Variations (I like to use Bach to represent order, clockwork, etc.)
"Walking the Dog" -- Gershwin
"Nessun Dorma" -- Puccini -- performed by Aretha Franklin, of course!
(Puccini seems to pop up when there's a passion in the air.)
Verdi's Requiem -- the "devil chasing you to hell" part, the Dies irae.
"I Don't Care Anymore" -- Phil Collins
"Hand on Heart" -- Queensryche
Der Winterreise -- Schubert
"I Don't Know How to Love Him" -- Helen Reddy
"On My Own" -- Les Miserables
"We Tell Ourselves" -- Clint Black
"Rivera Paradise" -- Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble
"In the End" --Linkin Park
"Love Bites" -- Def Leppard
"Right Now" -- Van Halen
"Sleepers Wake" -- Bach
"Love Never Dies" -- Kelley Hunt
Songlists are fun.
Actually, nobody has asked me a damn thing, but that's not going to stop me from making a fool playlist of a lot of the songs that have shown up through the novel. And it's odd that a novel with Symphonians in it has so many blues/rock songs in it. But that's the way it's turned out.
Load this up on your i-Pods, people!
"Brick by Brick" -- Kelley Hunt
"Hurt" -- Johnny Cash
"Take Me For a Little While" -- Coverdale/Page
"Ordinary People -- John Legend
"Musetta's Waltz" -- Puccini
The final so-called aria from Wozzeck -- Berg
"Confessing the Blues" -- Jay McShann
"Roll 'Em, Pete" -- Count Basie
Holst's First and Second Suites (especially the Dargason Fantasy, which gets explicated)
"Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini" -- Rachmaninoff (the supernatural pianist is Ashkenazy)
Bach's Goldberg Variations (I like to use Bach to represent order, clockwork, etc.)
"Walking the Dog" -- Gershwin
"Nessun Dorma" -- Puccini -- performed by Aretha Franklin, of course!
(Puccini seems to pop up when there's a passion in the air.)
Verdi's Requiem -- the "devil chasing you to hell" part, the Dies irae.
"I Don't Care Anymore" -- Phil Collins
"Hand on Heart" -- Queensryche
Der Winterreise -- Schubert
"I Don't Know How to Love Him" -- Helen Reddy
"On My Own" -- Les Miserables
"We Tell Ourselves" -- Clint Black
"Rivera Paradise" -- Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble
"In the End" --Linkin Park
"Love Bites" -- Def Leppard
"Right Now" -- Van Halen
"Sleepers Wake" -- Bach
"Love Never Dies" -- Kelley Hunt
Songlists are fun.
05 July 2006
Mr. Rogers to the rescue!
Actually, that's Carl Rogers, the humanist psychologist who wants people to keep it real. I had his book On Becoming a Person for ages, and only this weekend did I pick it up and start reading. What I found was immensely helpful. New ways to look at motives, ideas on undertaking the quest for self-knowledge, and ideas on how people work and hide things from themselves. (And that hiding thing keeps popping up in the Symphonians, too.)
I've been typing quotes from the book to give myself some ideas. And now I'm wanting to read more books by more psychologists. I have a lot of Jung, though he's kind of obtuse and flighty. But I do have a book of Maslov's, so I'll tackle that next. I have read parts of Maslov's book ages ago, and I remember that his writing is pretty straightforward. Rogers tries to be straightforward but I still find myself reading parts of it over and over. However, I keep getting interrupted every whipstitch, so it's hard to keep the myriad parts in my head as I go.
I loved psychology in high school and college, so I'm really digging this text. Not to mention that, as a writer, I've got to understand how humans work, especially as they're so cussedly contrary about every damn thing, and nobody wants to easily understood, though they say they do. How can others understand them when they can't understand themselves? All the defenses we put up against ourselves. No wonder we can't connect with others; we can't even connect with our own true selves. Who is that in there? How do I find you? How do I find me?
As an added bonus, I get to question my own behavior, and try to figure out what her deal is. She wants so badly to be a writer, yet there are times, like recently, that she fritters away so much time, then complains about how she never has time to write. Tsk!
I've been typing quotes from the book to give myself some ideas. And now I'm wanting to read more books by more psychologists. I have a lot of Jung, though he's kind of obtuse and flighty. But I do have a book of Maslov's, so I'll tackle that next. I have read parts of Maslov's book ages ago, and I remember that his writing is pretty straightforward. Rogers tries to be straightforward but I still find myself reading parts of it over and over. However, I keep getting interrupted every whipstitch, so it's hard to keep the myriad parts in my head as I go.
I loved psychology in high school and college, so I'm really digging this text. Not to mention that, as a writer, I've got to understand how humans work, especially as they're so cussedly contrary about every damn thing, and nobody wants to easily understood, though they say they do. How can others understand them when they can't understand themselves? All the defenses we put up against ourselves. No wonder we can't connect with others; we can't even connect with our own true selves. Who is that in there? How do I find you? How do I find me?
As an added bonus, I get to question my own behavior, and try to figure out what her deal is. She wants so badly to be a writer, yet there are times, like recently, that she fritters away so much time, then complains about how she never has time to write. Tsk!
03 July 2006
Quick update.
Haven't heard anything back from the agent on the Rose Saga proposal. Maybe she has experienced a dental emergency. Just my luck.
Got all snarled up in Symphonians. In trying to write new scenes, I've started writing repetitious scenes. I'm trying to plot the course of this relationship but it seems to me to be the same things over and over: attraction/repulsion, I love you/run away, alas if only Noel could, etc.
I have to wonder: Am I following too closely the original relationship? I am using it as a framework, but on the other hand I do have to make up a lot of stuff since I don't have a lot of documentation for the first part of the relationship. I wrote up several month's worth of calendars to show what happened on what day, to try to see how the original relationship went, and I have these huge gaps everywhere. I even traveled to the guy's hometown but never mentioned it in my journal. Probably because I mentioned it in the other journal, the one he has and I don't. Oh, egad!
Basically I'm trying to get this new narrative to cover the months of September, October, and November, at which point I can hook up with the old narrative pretty well.
Also I'm trying to figure out what to say about life, love, relationships, and the world over those three months, and what scenes would best do the job. But then I get these repetitious scenes, as I have mentioned before.
Cripes, why can't I just get a cushy job as a soil scientist instead?
(Because you got a D in Dr. Gille's Soils class, that's why.)
I need to get to work and try to sort this madness out before my little family comes home. Wish me luck, y'all.
Got all snarled up in Symphonians. In trying to write new scenes, I've started writing repetitious scenes. I'm trying to plot the course of this relationship but it seems to me to be the same things over and over: attraction/repulsion, I love you/run away, alas if only Noel could, etc.
I have to wonder: Am I following too closely the original relationship? I am using it as a framework, but on the other hand I do have to make up a lot of stuff since I don't have a lot of documentation for the first part of the relationship. I wrote up several month's worth of calendars to show what happened on what day, to try to see how the original relationship went, and I have these huge gaps everywhere. I even traveled to the guy's hometown but never mentioned it in my journal. Probably because I mentioned it in the other journal, the one he has and I don't. Oh, egad!
Basically I'm trying to get this new narrative to cover the months of September, October, and November, at which point I can hook up with the old narrative pretty well.
Also I'm trying to figure out what to say about life, love, relationships, and the world over those three months, and what scenes would best do the job. But then I get these repetitious scenes, as I have mentioned before.
Cripes, why can't I just get a cushy job as a soil scientist instead?
(Because you got a D in Dr. Gille's Soils class, that's why.)
I need to get to work and try to sort this madness out before my little family comes home. Wish me luck, y'all.
Here's a quarter, call someone who cares.
The Who (singing): I'm free!
BRC: He's free, but I cost a nickel.
BRC: He's free, but I cost a nickel.
30 June 2006
River rat.
River in the rain
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away somewhere
River, I love you, don't you care?
If you're on the run, winding someplace
Just trying to find the sun
Whether the sunshine, whether the rain,
River, I love you just the same.
But sometimes, in a time of trouble
When you're out of hand
And your muddy bubbles roll across my floor
Carrying away the things I treasure
Hell, there ain't no way to measure
Why I love you more than I did the day before ...
River in the rain
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away from me
River, I've never seen the sea.
-- Roger Miller, "River in the Rain," from the musical Big River
Love that song. Been playing it a lot lately -- because this is flood season? Or because I'm such a river rat?
The river appears in every novel I write. I can't resist. It's come to symbolize the boundary of heaven, because all my life I've stood on the hills that surround my little town and look out across the floodplain to the hills of Kansas, blue with distance. I have never traveled to the Kansas hills to stand and look back at my home. It's a view I've never seen.
All through my childhood, the river's paid us visits. 1979, the year the ice floes backed up behind the railroad bridge, my first flood. We had just gone to Savannah to Grandma Ann's when the water came into Nodaway, so we ended up camping out there. Then I believe there was one in '81, and maybe a short one in'85. The river made it to the edge of the yard in '79, but no closer.
Then there were the floods of legend.
The great flood I always heard about was 1951. The river was five miles across. Dad, who was about five or six, made a raft and invited Uncle Harold, who was blind, to take a ride. Uncle Harold knew better. Great-grandpa Ben, who worked for the Corps of Engineers, drove a big boat right up the main street and hitched it to the front of the store, which was built about five feet off the ground.
1993 was my flood.
I was going to college and living in the house where I'd lived when a kid. Every few days, as the waters rose, the route out of town changed as yet another road went under. Every day I could smell the stagnant, brown water. I finally had to evacuate when the water, which had stayed at the edge of the yard before, now crept up to the front door, to the windows. My coneflowers and delphiums floated in the murk. I had to get my stuff and leave. I did it, though I hated to.
The waters never came into my house, which was fortunate. The main street, however, was devastated. Grandpa Vance floated by Uncle Harold's house in the canoe and cleaned the leaves out of the gutters. Aunt Olga's house had to be torn down. Nodaway's population dropped from 50 to about 36.
There's this point of pride a river rat has, this relationship with the river that fills their home with mud and silt and mildew. "Can't chase us out," they say affectionately, looking out at the water. "The river's our home. We ain't leaving."
But I left. Live in a nice town. I can walk to the library; doesn't that count for something?
But I still want to go back and live in Nodaway. Live within sight of that river, live at the edge of heaven.
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away somewhere
River, I love you, don't you care?
If you're on the run, winding someplace
Just trying to find the sun
Whether the sunshine, whether the rain,
River, I love you just the same.
But sometimes, in a time of trouble
When you're out of hand
And your muddy bubbles roll across my floor
Carrying away the things I treasure
Hell, there ain't no way to measure
Why I love you more than I did the day before ...
River in the rain
Sometimes at night you look like a long white train
Winding your way away from me
River, I've never seen the sea.
-- Roger Miller, "River in the Rain," from the musical Big River
Love that song. Been playing it a lot lately -- because this is flood season? Or because I'm such a river rat?
The river appears in every novel I write. I can't resist. It's come to symbolize the boundary of heaven, because all my life I've stood on the hills that surround my little town and look out across the floodplain to the hills of Kansas, blue with distance. I have never traveled to the Kansas hills to stand and look back at my home. It's a view I've never seen.
All through my childhood, the river's paid us visits. 1979, the year the ice floes backed up behind the railroad bridge, my first flood. We had just gone to Savannah to Grandma Ann's when the water came into Nodaway, so we ended up camping out there. Then I believe there was one in '81, and maybe a short one in'85. The river made it to the edge of the yard in '79, but no closer.
Then there were the floods of legend.
The great flood I always heard about was 1951. The river was five miles across. Dad, who was about five or six, made a raft and invited Uncle Harold, who was blind, to take a ride. Uncle Harold knew better. Great-grandpa Ben, who worked for the Corps of Engineers, drove a big boat right up the main street and hitched it to the front of the store, which was built about five feet off the ground.
1993 was my flood.
I was going to college and living in the house where I'd lived when a kid. Every few days, as the waters rose, the route out of town changed as yet another road went under. Every day I could smell the stagnant, brown water. I finally had to evacuate when the water, which had stayed at the edge of the yard before, now crept up to the front door, to the windows. My coneflowers and delphiums floated in the murk. I had to get my stuff and leave. I did it, though I hated to.
The waters never came into my house, which was fortunate. The main street, however, was devastated. Grandpa Vance floated by Uncle Harold's house in the canoe and cleaned the leaves out of the gutters. Aunt Olga's house had to be torn down. Nodaway's population dropped from 50 to about 36.
There's this point of pride a river rat has, this relationship with the river that fills their home with mud and silt and mildew. "Can't chase us out," they say affectionately, looking out at the water. "The river's our home. We ain't leaving."
But I left. Live in a nice town. I can walk to the library; doesn't that count for something?
But I still want to go back and live in Nodaway. Live within sight of that river, live at the edge of heaven.
24 June 2006
I love small-market radio.
See, in KC, just about all the radio stations are owned by corporations. It's either Entercom, Susquehanna, or Cumulous, all up and down the radio dial. We have three light-rock stations (two in KC, one in Topeka) that I've stopped listening to, because they all play the same stuff. Five songs by Rod Stewart, six by Billy Joel, ten by Elton John. I'm going, guys, these musicians have had a long and varied history in which they've created tons of good songs. It's not like you have to play "Captain Jack" by Billy Joel, but can you mix it up a little?
Though KYYS, which is owned by Entercom, will have shuffle weekends where they play all kinds of crazy stuff, and I do like that. However, I'm pissed off at Entercom because four years ago they mismanaged the classical station into the ground (fired the staff that I'd been listening to for years and got DJ's that didn't know how to pronounce Ralph Vaughn Williams, for example) and then banished it to the AM dial and replaced it with "The Buzz." I'll give them a buzz. Here are your Arbitron ratings right here, Jerky Breath!
But I digress.
Small-market stations -- radio stations that serve a small area -- are my solace. There was a great one out of Clinton, Mo., that I could sometimes pull in. One night they played "Madman on the Water" by Elton John, "Angry Young Man" by Billy Joel, and "Synchonicity II" by The Police. Damn, what a lineup! I heard they'd also mix up Beach Boy tunes with Motley Crue, which sounded fun. Alas they got bought out by a Christian satellite service, which pretty much put an end to Motley Crue.
My favorite is KNIM out of Maryville. They pretty much play whatever the hell they want. They'll play stuff from the Coverdale/Page album, "Driving the Last Spike" by Genesis, which is like this 9-minute song about a man who works to build a railroad. Once they played "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" by Iron Butterfly, all 20 minutes of it. It started when I got into my truck after work and it brought me into the driveway. Of course they'll play the latest from Three Doors Down and Billy Idol and the Cars. Love 'em.
I'll listen to KKFI from KC when it comes in, too. They're totally independant, I think 83% of their revenue comes from their fund drives, and the rest from grants. They'll hobble along with bad soundboards or malfunctioning CD changers, but they hit you with all kinds of great stuff. Blues, jazz, speed metal, news, and lots of stuff from local musicians. They introduced me to Kelley Hunt, Anthony Gomes, Kurt Elling, and all kinds of neat and fun stuff.
Oh, I keep forgetting -- this station now has streaming audio, so you can see what I'm raving about.
I'm just a radiohead, guys.
On the computer: Retro Red-Eye Express from KKFI (streaming audio)
Though KYYS, which is owned by Entercom, will have shuffle weekends where they play all kinds of crazy stuff, and I do like that. However, I'm pissed off at Entercom because four years ago they mismanaged the classical station into the ground (fired the staff that I'd been listening to for years and got DJ's that didn't know how to pronounce Ralph Vaughn Williams, for example) and then banished it to the AM dial and replaced it with "The Buzz." I'll give them a buzz. Here are your Arbitron ratings right here, Jerky Breath!
But I digress.
Small-market stations -- radio stations that serve a small area -- are my solace. There was a great one out of Clinton, Mo., that I could sometimes pull in. One night they played "Madman on the Water" by Elton John, "Angry Young Man" by Billy Joel, and "Synchonicity II" by The Police. Damn, what a lineup! I heard they'd also mix up Beach Boy tunes with Motley Crue, which sounded fun. Alas they got bought out by a Christian satellite service, which pretty much put an end to Motley Crue.
My favorite is KNIM out of Maryville. They pretty much play whatever the hell they want. They'll play stuff from the Coverdale/Page album, "Driving the Last Spike" by Genesis, which is like this 9-minute song about a man who works to build a railroad. Once they played "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" by Iron Butterfly, all 20 minutes of it. It started when I got into my truck after work and it brought me into the driveway. Of course they'll play the latest from Three Doors Down and Billy Idol and the Cars. Love 'em.
I'll listen to KKFI from KC when it comes in, too. They're totally independant, I think 83% of their revenue comes from their fund drives, and the rest from grants. They'll hobble along with bad soundboards or malfunctioning CD changers, but they hit you with all kinds of great stuff. Blues, jazz, speed metal, news, and lots of stuff from local musicians. They introduced me to Kelley Hunt, Anthony Gomes, Kurt Elling, and all kinds of neat and fun stuff.
Oh, I keep forgetting -- this station now has streaming audio, so you can see what I'm raving about.
I'm just a radiohead, guys.
On the computer: Retro Red-Eye Express from KKFI (streaming audio)
23 June 2006
And while we're on the subject ...
Check out Don Tate's comments on the scarcity of black males in children's books. I've also noticed that guy MC's are totally underrepresented (in the short story collection I've been writing, I've added a couple of guy stories, including one with a black MC. Hope I do it justice).
Thanks, Don, for the backup!
Thanks, Don, for the backup!
On being black in fiction.
Recently read some interesting articles from Ursula K. LeGuin's site, as well as a super reply by Pam Noles.
And Pam Noles wrote about this in her essay called "Shame." This sprung up after the Sci/Fi network did a movie based on Earthsea -- totally trashed it -- and they made Ged and all his buds white as the pure-driven snow. Cause I guess wizards of colors aren't good for ratings?
And Pam wrote about reaching that point in Earthsea when LeGuin mentions that while Ged and Jasper were red-brown, Vetch was black-brown.
And I look at all my lily-white characters in Symphonians. And cringe.
I mean, I look at the diversity of kids in elementary schools these days. Even my nephew and niece, who are part Portuguese, have cinnamon skin and that black hair and brown eyes I love so much. Why can't my characters reflect this reality?
I've been wanting for ages to write a fantasy novel with all-black characters. I mean the dark-black ones -- what did Toni Morrison call them? Coal-rock? (I can't remember and I can't find my copy of Paradise on my bookshelves.) I'd have all the dark colors, maybe have a token white, just to turn the whole race thing on its head. I really think we shouldn't assume that all our MC's are white just because we see a lot of whites. That's because whites seem to have a way of making other colors feel uncomfortable. And I've done my share of dumb things in the past, though I don't do them again, Lord willing.
But the thing that really got me was that one of the characters I've known longest -- Roderick, one of my wonderful Symphonians, and one of my favorites -- has always been part Spanish. His mom was Spanish. The man has black hair and brown eyes, and I've had an idea that he's dark-skinned, but it never showed up on the page. Many times I've thought, "Well, heavens, he's got to at least look like he has a tan," but it never shows on the page.
And Yvonne could easily be Asian; I can see her looking like some wild anime angel to try and freak out her parents. Not to mention the butterfly tattoo and the crazy earrings.
I'd like to bring myself next to have my main character be of a different color, race, or heritage. But I'm shy of this ... what if I offend somebody is the usual excuse. "You can't learn all about being black just by listening to the Tom Joyner Show on the radio," I tell myself. I need to do more research. I feel it's important for all to be included in my stories. I know, I know, I'm writing about the human condition, blah blah blah. But I think it's important that we acknowledge the human condition isn't only about being white.
Ursula K. Le Guin said this:
"I have received letters that broke my heart, from adolescents of color in this country and in England, telling me that when they realized that Ged and the other Archipelagans in the Earthsea books are not white people, they felt included in the world of literary and movie fantasy for the first time."
— Speech to the Book Expo America children's literature breakfast, June, 4, 2004.
And Pam Noles wrote about this in her essay called "Shame." This sprung up after the Sci/Fi network did a movie based on Earthsea -- totally trashed it -- and they made Ged and all his buds white as the pure-driven snow. Cause I guess wizards of colors aren't good for ratings?
And Pam wrote about reaching that point in Earthsea when LeGuin mentions that while Ged and Jasper were red-brown, Vetch was black-brown.
And because Le Guin snuck up on it, let us thrill with Sparrowhawk as he made his way, the Revelation came as a shock. I do remember bursting out into tears on the living room couch when I understood what was going on. And the tears flowed again when Mom came home from work and I showed her the book while trying to explain. Sparrowhawk is brown. I think he's like an Indian from India. And Vetch is black like from Africa. There's a bunch more and they have real power. Not the girls, though. But still they are also the good guys. It's the white people who are evil. And Sparrowhawk is also Ged, and he's going to be the most powerful one of them all, ever.
And I look at all my lily-white characters in Symphonians. And cringe.
I mean, I look at the diversity of kids in elementary schools these days. Even my nephew and niece, who are part Portuguese, have cinnamon skin and that black hair and brown eyes I love so much. Why can't my characters reflect this reality?
I've been wanting for ages to write a fantasy novel with all-black characters. I mean the dark-black ones -- what did Toni Morrison call them? Coal-rock? (I can't remember and I can't find my copy of Paradise on my bookshelves.) I'd have all the dark colors, maybe have a token white, just to turn the whole race thing on its head. I really think we shouldn't assume that all our MC's are white just because we see a lot of whites. That's because whites seem to have a way of making other colors feel uncomfortable. And I've done my share of dumb things in the past, though I don't do them again, Lord willing.
But the thing that really got me was that one of the characters I've known longest -- Roderick, one of my wonderful Symphonians, and one of my favorites -- has always been part Spanish. His mom was Spanish. The man has black hair and brown eyes, and I've had an idea that he's dark-skinned, but it never showed up on the page. Many times I've thought, "Well, heavens, he's got to at least look like he has a tan," but it never shows on the page.
And Yvonne could easily be Asian; I can see her looking like some wild anime angel to try and freak out her parents. Not to mention the butterfly tattoo and the crazy earrings.
I'd like to bring myself next to have my main character be of a different color, race, or heritage. But I'm shy of this ... what if I offend somebody is the usual excuse. "You can't learn all about being black just by listening to the Tom Joyner Show on the radio," I tell myself. I need to do more research. I feel it's important for all to be included in my stories. I know, I know, I'm writing about the human condition, blah blah blah. But I think it's important that we acknowledge the human condition isn't only about being white.
21 June 2006
The view from inside a literary magazine.
I worked at the Laurel Review/Greentower Press, which is a literary magazine and a small press at NWMSU, ages ago, for a summer semester. I guess I was an editorial assistant, because I read slush and helped them get stuff mailed out, but mostly I was helping them adjust after their move to a different building (Colden Hall was being remodeled). So I was doing a lot of book-stacking and room organizing, too. But as a wide-eyed young writer I was fascinated.
This is how things worked at a literary magazine. The editors and the readers would read the MSS and, if a MS struck them as possibly being worthy, they'd scribble a comment on the envelopes the MS came in. "Take a look at this," or, "Not sure but maybe take a look," or, "What's with the screaming guy?"
The noteworthy submissions were set aside and given a second look. If the material was good but didn't fit in with the magazine's style, or if the ending didn't work, but they still liked the writing, they'd give it a "kiss," aka a form letter that said "try us again." All the rest of the MSS got form rejections.
Manuscripts that were accepted became proofs. On the original MSS, in red ink, one of the editors would specify margin width, page setup, font style and font size. Of course the MSS were proofread and made to conform to house style. Then a big sheaf of MSS would zip off to the printers.
After the magazine had been published these marked-up proofs would end up in the recycle bins. After asking Dr. Slater, I pounced on them and took 'em home. Among them was a couple of poems by Galway Kinsey, I believe. I kept those!
The last time I stopped by the LR offices, there were two recycle bins overflowing with rejected submissions, and a big pile of new submissions that needed to be read. Just so you know.
Most literary magazines have professors as their editors, and if they're good professors (and the guys I worked with were quite good), they're running all over the place taking care of their students, and in their spare time they run the magazine. This is why it takes a while for them to get back with you. Finals week is really bad. And don't send stuff in summer because often there's only a wide-eyed young writer running things.
Small literary magazines often send out requests for subscriptions with their rejection letters because they really could use the subscriptions! A lot of magazines survive on grants and magazine sales, not on advertising. Advertising is traded between magazines -- "I'll show an ad for your magazine if you show an ad for mine." Kind of interesting.
I think nearly all of the LR editors have retired -- I know Trowbridge and Slater have, though I'm not sure about Dr. Richards -- and there's a new generation in place. But I'm pretty sure things are still run the same way. And as far as I can tell, the new editors are pretty sharp, too, though I don't see them as much as the old-school guys.
If you live near a university, you might volunteer at a local lit magazine. It is a real eye-opener (and also you get to read real slush!). And any time an author can spend behind an editor's desk is time that pays back in understanding and patience, as well as a better sense of what a writer can get away with ... or can't.
This is how things worked at a literary magazine. The editors and the readers would read the MSS and, if a MS struck them as possibly being worthy, they'd scribble a comment on the envelopes the MS came in. "Take a look at this," or, "Not sure but maybe take a look," or, "What's with the screaming guy?"
The noteworthy submissions were set aside and given a second look. If the material was good but didn't fit in with the magazine's style, or if the ending didn't work, but they still liked the writing, they'd give it a "kiss," aka a form letter that said "try us again." All the rest of the MSS got form rejections.
Manuscripts that were accepted became proofs. On the original MSS, in red ink, one of the editors would specify margin width, page setup, font style and font size. Of course the MSS were proofread and made to conform to house style. Then a big sheaf of MSS would zip off to the printers.
After the magazine had been published these marked-up proofs would end up in the recycle bins. After asking Dr. Slater, I pounced on them and took 'em home. Among them was a couple of poems by Galway Kinsey, I believe. I kept those!
The last time I stopped by the LR offices, there were two recycle bins overflowing with rejected submissions, and a big pile of new submissions that needed to be read. Just so you know.
Most literary magazines have professors as their editors, and if they're good professors (and the guys I worked with were quite good), they're running all over the place taking care of their students, and in their spare time they run the magazine. This is why it takes a while for them to get back with you. Finals week is really bad. And don't send stuff in summer because often there's only a wide-eyed young writer running things.
Small literary magazines often send out requests for subscriptions with their rejection letters because they really could use the subscriptions! A lot of magazines survive on grants and magazine sales, not on advertising. Advertising is traded between magazines -- "I'll show an ad for your magazine if you show an ad for mine." Kind of interesting.
I think nearly all of the LR editors have retired -- I know Trowbridge and Slater have, though I'm not sure about Dr. Richards -- and there's a new generation in place. But I'm pretty sure things are still run the same way. And as far as I can tell, the new editors are pretty sharp, too, though I don't see them as much as the old-school guys.
If you live near a university, you might volunteer at a local lit magazine. It is a real eye-opener (and also you get to read real slush!). And any time an author can spend behind an editor's desk is time that pays back in understanding and patience, as well as a better sense of what a writer can get away with ... or can't.
I love alfalfa.
Got the PDF file from Therese today that shows what my alfalfa article looks like for Organic Gardening. We're going to press! I still have to get a tiny bit of information on whether one of my sources has a Ph.D or not, but other than that it's done.
Now I gotta get some OG's from the library, look them over, and write them a query about micorrhyza and what conditions are necessary to make them work with your garden plants. Not that I'm a mycologist (one who studies fungi), but mycology is an interesting field, and it's all about plant symbiology, baby.
And that would tie in nicely with the soilbuilding book proposal.
Or an article about earthworms would also be nice.
Let's get on the stick, it's 9:30 already.
BTW, we went to the Royals game last night and they actually WON. Berroa stole two bases (BRC corrected me: he stole one base and the pitcher got an error ... whatever!) and DeJesus broke his bat in half for a double, I think. And we talked a little about the Bo Jackson days, when he was playing with the Royals in Seattle and he threw a ball clear from the wall at the back of the field to Bob Boone at home plate and it NEVER BOUNCED, to get an out on Harold Reynolds! It was great to have watched him in the good ol' days.
Now I gotta get some OG's from the library, look them over, and write them a query about micorrhyza and what conditions are necessary to make them work with your garden plants. Not that I'm a mycologist (one who studies fungi), but mycology is an interesting field, and it's all about plant symbiology, baby.
And that would tie in nicely with the soilbuilding book proposal.
Or an article about earthworms would also be nice.
Let's get on the stick, it's 9:30 already.
BTW, we went to the Royals game last night and they actually WON. Berroa stole two bases (BRC corrected me: he stole one base and the pitcher got an error ... whatever!) and DeJesus broke his bat in half for a double, I think. And we talked a little about the Bo Jackson days, when he was playing with the Royals in Seattle and he threw a ball clear from the wall at the back of the field to Bob Boone at home plate and it NEVER BOUNCED, to get an out on Harold Reynolds! It was great to have watched him in the good ol' days.
19 June 2006
*scribbles in dust* Wash me!!
Sophie to Grandma (hand on car): Just look for our white car.
(The car's actually silver.)
Grandma: *What* color is it?
(Sophie looks at the bug mess all over the front of the car.)
Sophie: I don't know. Maybe we should wash it.
(The car's actually silver.)
Grandma: *What* color is it?
(Sophie looks at the bug mess all over the front of the car.)
Sophie: I don't know. Maybe we should wash it.
Update.
I'm up to 16 pages of character sketches and have written about three or four new pages of Symphonians scene, and moved around bits of Chapter 17 to make the chapter chronological. Now I need to figure what the impetus behind Ch. 17 is. Right now it feels like it's going all over the map -- no cohesion. But writing time is over, and now I gotta go get the kid. I feel good, though -- nice writing day, though part of it I was falling asleep at the desk and I had to sit outside and write longhand under the silver maple so I could stay awake. And then chai tea, which is also very good. I just wish I could work longer, now that I've found the groove, but, as they say on earth, C'est la vie!
On the i-Pod -- It *was* the Hollies with "The Air That I Breathe" (one of my songs) but BRC switched it "It's Only Love" by Byron Adams and Tina Turner (one of his songs). Oh well. Though Tina kicks ass.
On the i-Pod -- It *was* the Hollies with "The Air That I Breathe" (one of my songs) but BRC switched it "It's Only Love" by Byron Adams and Tina Turner (one of his songs). Oh well. Though Tina kicks ass.
At the library.
We have this weird computer set-up at home where my laptop doesn't have internet and the computer that does have internet won't accept a memory stick, or flash drive, whatever that thingy is. So I have to walk out to the library to send my gardening column to Jess, since the computers here are like, you know, modern.
I got through interlibrary loan three big quartos -- two on roses and one on Empress Josephine. I will carry these home (about seven blocks) and take a look at them later.
I have 14 pages of character studies finished right now. However, each character averages about two pages, so we still have work to do. I'm doing them on the computer which actually does seem a little easier than doing them on paper. I've gotten pretty good about composing both on paper and on the keyboard -- gotten used to that.
Anne says she should get back with me sometime this week on the rose query. Fingers crossed, and let's hope she doesn't suddenly experience a dental emergency or some damn thing.
Okay! Let's get back home and get some work done! There are only so many hours the kid's gone for summer kindergarten, and every minute seems precious because I have only two glorious weeks left!
I got through interlibrary loan three big quartos -- two on roses and one on Empress Josephine. I will carry these home (about seven blocks) and take a look at them later.
I have 14 pages of character studies finished right now. However, each character averages about two pages, so we still have work to do. I'm doing them on the computer which actually does seem a little easier than doing them on paper. I've gotten pretty good about composing both on paper and on the keyboard -- gotten used to that.
Anne says she should get back with me sometime this week on the rose query. Fingers crossed, and let's hope she doesn't suddenly experience a dental emergency or some damn thing.
Okay! Let's get back home and get some work done! There are only so many hours the kid's gone for summer kindergarten, and every minute seems precious because I have only two glorious weeks left!
16 June 2006
Some progress!
I've written three pages on character sketches so far. Only 247 pages to go to make my half-ream. Ha ha! Oh I am such an idiot.
I was thinking about typing my character sketches into the computer so I could 1) read what I wrote and 2) move things around into different sections. Sounds good in theory. But will it work in practice?
Maybe I should get off the computer and do some actual work.
Remember, I did tell Janine at FSG that it might be a year before she sees the novel again. And I want to have amazing characters like Anne Tyler does. If I want the magic, I gotta do the work. Also, this will bring the characters closer to what the book wants of them. And I'll avoid libel suits!
(I keep thinking of all the other novels I need to work on ... I wonder if I'll ever get to them, especially after I go back to working full-time. This bothers me.)
I was thinking about typing my character sketches into the computer so I could 1) read what I wrote and 2) move things around into different sections. Sounds good in theory. But will it work in practice?
Maybe I should get off the computer and do some actual work.
Remember, I did tell Janine at FSG that it might be a year before she sees the novel again. And I want to have amazing characters like Anne Tyler does. If I want the magic, I gotta do the work. Also, this will bring the characters closer to what the book wants of them. And I'll avoid libel suits!
(I keep thinking of all the other novels I need to work on ... I wonder if I'll ever get to them, especially after I go back to working full-time. This bothers me.)
15 June 2006
Kicked it out the door!
For now. The Rose Saga proposal, that is. I went ahead and sent it to Anne today, stating that I wasn't sure if I should write this for an adult audience or a MG/YA audience. I'm leaning toward the younger audience because that market has no rose history book while the adults have plenty of 'em, there's almost always a short rose history chapter in most rose books I've seen, even if the book's about planting or cultivation. But I'll see what the bosses think first.
So now I am getting back to Symphonians again. Alas I discovered I must do more work. Here, look at this Anne Tyler interview.
(And it's rare for her to give interviews, so read closely.)
But what I love about Anne's stories are her characters. "Grownups" is my favorite book of hers, mainly because the characters are so amazing. The first chapter is hard to get through because you're meeting them all at once, but after that it's much easier.
Look at what she says about the way she writes:
And she also says this:
Reams of paper on her characters creates characters that live on the page, characters that drive the plot.
I have about six characters in Symphonians that I need to write character sketches about. So, my assignment is ... gulp ...
WRITE A FULL REAM ABOUT THE CHARACTERS IN SYMPHONIANS.
What! That's only 500 pages!
*faints*
*comes to*
...okay, maybe I could like write on one side of the page and do 250 pages.
*faints*
Oh, stop being such a wuss. You just want to write 10 pages on all the major characters and get out of the assignment. You want to write a kick-ass novel or not? You want to be like Anne Tyler? Then do the work. Over and out!
Roger that.
On the mental i-Pod: "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC
So now I am getting back to Symphonians again. Alas I discovered I must do more work. Here, look at this Anne Tyler interview.
(And it's rare for her to give interviews, so read closely.)
But what I love about Anne's stories are her characters. "Grownups" is my favorite book of hers, mainly because the characters are so amazing. The first chapter is hard to get through because you're meeting them all at once, but after that it's much easier.
Look at what she says about the way she writes:
I spend about a year between novels. My decision to start a new one is just that, a decision, since I never get inspirations. I'll say, "It's time I stopped lolling about. I'd better think something up." Then for a month or so I'll jot down desperate possibilities. "Maybe I could write about a man who does such-and-such. Or wait: I think I already did that. Well, then maybe about that woman I saw in the grocery the other day. What was she up to, exactly? What might her story have been?"
Eventually, one of these possibilities will start flowering in my mind, and I'll manufacture what's initially a very trumped-up, artificial plot. I'll write maybe one long paragraph describing the events, then a page or two breaking the events into chapters, and then reams of pages delving into my characters. After that, I'm ready to begin.
And she also says this:
I do write long, long character notes—family background, history, details of appearance—much more than will ever appear in the novel. I think this is what lifts a book from that early calculated, artificial stage. One day, around chapter 2 or 3, I'll be slogging through some dialogue and all of a sudden a character says something that makes me laugh. Where did that come from? I'm not funny! Then another will flatly refuse the plot contrivance I've designed for him. I'll write a scene this way, write a scene that way; it slows to a crawl and stops. Finally, I say, "Oh, all right," and I drop the contrivance and the scene falls into place and I see a motive I'd never guessed and I understand where we're going. It's as if someone else is telling me the story. I don't want to say I hear voices; well, actually I do hear voices, but I don't think it's supernatural. I think it's just that when characters are given enough texture and backbone, then lo and behold, they stand on their own.
Reams of paper on her characters creates characters that live on the page, characters that drive the plot.
I have about six characters in Symphonians that I need to write character sketches about. So, my assignment is ... gulp ...
WRITE A FULL REAM ABOUT THE CHARACTERS IN SYMPHONIANS.
What! That's only 500 pages!
*faints*
*comes to*
...okay, maybe I could like write on one side of the page and do 250 pages.
*faints*
Oh, stop being such a wuss. You just want to write 10 pages on all the major characters and get out of the assignment. You want to write a kick-ass novel or not? You want to be like Anne Tyler? Then do the work. Over and out!
Roger that.
On the mental i-Pod: "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC
10 June 2006
Back to the Rose Saga.
Because the books that might possibly be competing with my book have mostly all arrived from Amazon.
One was too short and had the same historical info I've seen in many other rose books; one had a big slant toward interior decoration; one was too old but still a good source; and one ...
... well, one was published in March 2006 and does many of the same things I had planned to do. And he got his MS checked over by Graham Thomas, the rosarian god, before he (Thomas, not the author) died. And he got David Austin, rose hybridizer god, to write the foreword.
*throws self in river*
But on the bright side, this guy is dry as heck and he does cover a lot of stuff I'm not as interested in. And I cover some things he doesn't, including the search for a blue rose.
But I was really dissatisfied with this book, and wondered why. Then I got out Robert Reddell's Rose Bible, which I love love love, and I set these two books down side-by-side, and started thinking about why one book works and one doesn't (for me, that is).
Reddell's writing is lively. The text is broken up on the page with subheads. White space is used to good effect in this book. The pages are large and generous, while the others' pages seem small (and also illustrations had no margins whatsoever, making the other book feel chintzy -- not the author's fault, but just poor design). Also, Reddell's book has these huge, luscious pictures of roses in full bloom, and I keep finding myself wanting to kiss the page. I really love the pics. The pics make me want these roses bad (though I still don't want them bad enough to actually create a rose garden in my yard -- still jaded -- but this resistance to gardening has been fading lately).
So: what if I lean more toward Reddell's model? Let's get pics. And let's get lively text. I was thinking about including many sidebars in my book. Why not small articles? Talk to a rose breeder (I'd like to talk to Carruth about that!) about what rose breeding *really* entails, and tie it to the explosion of rose breeding in France after Josephine got things rolling. Talk to a plant archeologist, or whatever you call them, about roses in ancient cultures. Let's not just pull facts from a book, but let's talk to people, make the information come alive.
But I have my work cut out for me. I'm going to have to restructure my chapter setups. But the sample chapter about the search for the blue rose is something this guy didn't even touch, so that's good.
I'd like to get the danged thing out this week. I can't keep them waiting on me much longer.
On the i-Pod -- "Sentimental Lady" by Bob Welch
Then "Lebanese Blonde" by Thievery Corporation (thanks, Tracy)
One was too short and had the same historical info I've seen in many other rose books; one had a big slant toward interior decoration; one was too old but still a good source; and one ...
... well, one was published in March 2006 and does many of the same things I had planned to do. And he got his MS checked over by Graham Thomas, the rosarian god, before he (Thomas, not the author) died. And he got David Austin, rose hybridizer god, to write the foreword.
*throws self in river*
But on the bright side, this guy is dry as heck and he does cover a lot of stuff I'm not as interested in. And I cover some things he doesn't, including the search for a blue rose.
But I was really dissatisfied with this book, and wondered why. Then I got out Robert Reddell's Rose Bible, which I love love love, and I set these two books down side-by-side, and started thinking about why one book works and one doesn't (for me, that is).
Reddell's writing is lively. The text is broken up on the page with subheads. White space is used to good effect in this book. The pages are large and generous, while the others' pages seem small (and also illustrations had no margins whatsoever, making the other book feel chintzy -- not the author's fault, but just poor design). Also, Reddell's book has these huge, luscious pictures of roses in full bloom, and I keep finding myself wanting to kiss the page. I really love the pics. The pics make me want these roses bad (though I still don't want them bad enough to actually create a rose garden in my yard -- still jaded -- but this resistance to gardening has been fading lately).
So: what if I lean more toward Reddell's model? Let's get pics. And let's get lively text. I was thinking about including many sidebars in my book. Why not small articles? Talk to a rose breeder (I'd like to talk to Carruth about that!) about what rose breeding *really* entails, and tie it to the explosion of rose breeding in France after Josephine got things rolling. Talk to a plant archeologist, or whatever you call them, about roses in ancient cultures. Let's not just pull facts from a book, but let's talk to people, make the information come alive.
But I have my work cut out for me. I'm going to have to restructure my chapter setups. But the sample chapter about the search for the blue rose is something this guy didn't even touch, so that's good.
I'd like to get the danged thing out this week. I can't keep them waiting on me much longer.
On the i-Pod -- "Sentimental Lady" by Bob Welch
Then "Lebanese Blonde" by Thievery Corporation (thanks, Tracy)
06 June 2006
Winner of the "Hell of a Segue" award for today.
On the i-Pod:
"Long Cold Winter" -- Cinderella
Followed up by "Do-Wacka-Do" by Roger Miller.
"Long Cold Winter" -- Cinderella
Followed up by "Do-Wacka-Do" by Roger Miller.
They're threatening me already.
From the school:
*********
Your student's meal account balance is: -$.10
Any money paid will be added to the account. Any negative balance over $10.00 will be served a peanut butter sandwich.
*********
Please! No! Anything but the peanut butter sandwich!
*********
Your student's meal account balance is: -$.10
Any money paid will be added to the account. Any negative balance over $10.00 will be served a peanut butter sandwich.
*********
Please! No! Anything but the peanut butter sandwich!
02 June 2006
More ramblings on Carter, because we know you need to hear all about it.
Sorry! I don't have the baby pics yet! But I will soon!
(I'm sure that everyone who visits this blog is going, "The heck with all that novel crap, we want to see the little baby!" Well, I don't blame you.)
Anyway, more novel crap.
Kind of funny, because it's going to be all about Carter's character today. I took the bits where Carter appeared in chapter 16 and copied them into a separate document, trying to see what I've written about him so far. The guy is still a cardboard cutout, which of course bugs me. I'm like, "Hurry up! Come to life already!"
Got frustrated, so I started working on the chronology of the events of the chapter, which is cloudy and uncertain. And in doing that I ended up hauling out the ...
(ringing, metallic voice): LETTERS! OF! THE! EX!!
(puts sfx away)
So I jotted down some dates, trying to put together a chronology to use as a framework in the novel. Then I started to read the letters the ex wrote. I'm trying to read them with an open mind, trying to get into the guy's thoughts and imagine, okay, what's he thinking here, why'd he say that. Though I kept breaking out of that thoughtful frame of mind with such comments as, "Yeah, right!" or, "When monkeys fly out of my butt!" And then I'd tell the peanut gallery to hush up, and I'd try to get back into the guy's mindset.
But I'm getting better. A few times I've said, "Okay, I can see why he'd say that," which helps. And I've told him, "Man, you should have chosen one course of action and stuck to it." The guy's really conflicted. He did hear me when I said our relationship was over, and he understood the words I said. But the old body said, "I want that woman" and so he kept following me around which totally screwed him up. And he did throw me a birthday party, and that was really nice.
But the guy could be really exasperating, too. In one letter he complained that when I spent time with a group of my friends, I paid more attention to them than I did to him. Reading that today kind of floored me. Okay, I guess he does have some key issues to deal with after all! But now that I think about it, it really didn't occur to me before that there might be other stuff going on in his psyche that would also contribute to his behavior toward me/Kay. That might be worth speculating upon.
If I can get a character that will live on the page, that will be most of the battle right there. One that's interesting, one that the reader empathises with, and one that has his share of surprises ....
Yo, unconscious mind, give it to me!
P.S. But hurry up because I've been working on Chapter 16 for the past three weeks and yet I see no end to it.
(I'm sure that everyone who visits this blog is going, "The heck with all that novel crap, we want to see the little baby!" Well, I don't blame you.)
Anyway, more novel crap.
Kind of funny, because it's going to be all about Carter's character today. I took the bits where Carter appeared in chapter 16 and copied them into a separate document, trying to see what I've written about him so far. The guy is still a cardboard cutout, which of course bugs me. I'm like, "Hurry up! Come to life already!"
Got frustrated, so I started working on the chronology of the events of the chapter, which is cloudy and uncertain. And in doing that I ended up hauling out the ...
(ringing, metallic voice): LETTERS! OF! THE! EX!!
(puts sfx away)
So I jotted down some dates, trying to put together a chronology to use as a framework in the novel. Then I started to read the letters the ex wrote. I'm trying to read them with an open mind, trying to get into the guy's thoughts and imagine, okay, what's he thinking here, why'd he say that. Though I kept breaking out of that thoughtful frame of mind with such comments as, "Yeah, right!" or, "When monkeys fly out of my butt!" And then I'd tell the peanut gallery to hush up, and I'd try to get back into the guy's mindset.
But I'm getting better. A few times I've said, "Okay, I can see why he'd say that," which helps. And I've told him, "Man, you should have chosen one course of action and stuck to it." The guy's really conflicted. He did hear me when I said our relationship was over, and he understood the words I said. But the old body said, "I want that woman" and so he kept following me around which totally screwed him up. And he did throw me a birthday party, and that was really nice.
But the guy could be really exasperating, too. In one letter he complained that when I spent time with a group of my friends, I paid more attention to them than I did to him. Reading that today kind of floored me. Okay, I guess he does have some key issues to deal with after all! But now that I think about it, it really didn't occur to me before that there might be other stuff going on in his psyche that would also contribute to his behavior toward me/Kay. That might be worth speculating upon.
If I can get a character that will live on the page, that will be most of the battle right there. One that's interesting, one that the reader empathises with, and one that has his share of surprises ....
Yo, unconscious mind, give it to me!
P.S. But hurry up because I've been working on Chapter 16 for the past three weeks and yet I see no end to it.
01 June 2006
Announcement!
If that wasn't enough, I got a new niece at about 11 p.m. last night. Maya Furtado. Mike says it looked like she was 6 pounds 7 ounces (he got only a glimpse of the weight in all the excitment). I'll update this later with pics.
Time now to wake the kid for summer kindergarten. More later.
Time now to wake the kid for summer kindergarten. More later.
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