1. Just entered a novel contest. I want to throw up.
2. Declared today the beginning of pumpkin bread season. The house smells wonderful.
25 September, 2011
14 September, 2011
purgatory
In the past seven-plus years in this apartment, we have had massive and repetitive power outages, repeated water outages, internet failures, and one memorable President's Day weekend when the heating broke. We've gone through two refrigerator meltdowns. There are ghosts in the heating elements of the stove and the oven. We do not discuss the sturdiness of the stairs, and we pretend not to notice the massive termite damage. We have had immediate downstairs neighbors arrested on domestic violence. We've had one murder and one attempted murder in nearby buildings. We regularly hear our next door neighbors screaming and banging on the floor in what appears to be celebratory glee having to do with a computer game. The people who live below us have the angriest two-year-old in the history of humanity and a disturbing habit of pouring a bottle of lighter fluid on the grill whenever they want to char steaks. We live at the nexus of three daycares, two of which are for infants and toddlers only.
And now we have a neighbor, newly put here to test us, who sings showtunes as if she is onstage projecting to the nosebleed seats without a microphone.
At least the fridge is working.
And now we have a neighbor, newly put here to test us, who sings showtunes as if she is onstage projecting to the nosebleed seats without a microphone.
At least the fridge is working.
07 September, 2011
o my audience
All, like, three people out there who read this. Whatever. I was gonna say I don't keep this blog for Other People, but of course I do. There is some audience out there, even if it is the three people who do read it (one of whom is compelled by marital obligation). If I wanted a truly private journal, I would... well. Honestly, I would probably not write, because unless I am using a secret code known only to myself, there is a potential secondary audience besides myself.
But yeah, I'd handwrite in a book, if I wanted to privately ruminate about stuff. I used to do that. The dreaded diary. I think it had a lock, too, although I don't think I ever really got into the whole schtick. I remember keeping that diary when we moved from Oklahoma to Colorado, the year I turned... 12? Yeah. 12. And then, once we'd moved, I got the dog I'd been wanting desperately since I was old enough to say the word, and the diary was discarded in favor of puppy. I've kept more game diaries over the years, for people who live in my head and share a collective reality with a handful of players and a GM. But none for me. Blogging isn't a journal. It's partly reflective. But there's always, always an audience.
It's an interesting rhetorical exercise. I like reading people's blogs, sometimes; other times I wonder why in the hell this person bothers, if all they want to do is carry on like it's the Jenny Jones show (is that even on anymore? I don't know.). I mean, who's the audience for that? And my guess is, the blogger doesn't think anyone reads, or doesn't care, and possibly has the common sense of a small clam. But whatever. I don't read those blogs. I am not a voyeur. And I despise whining and endless recitations of My Personal Drama, which is usually more like a poorly written late-night cable show than reality. Or perhaps it's too much like reality, and I am fortunate in my choices of personal associates. Again, whatever. Also, I think Twitter makes it too damn easy for people to say shit that is better left unsaid. But then, I think most shit is better left unsaid. Makes communication in this household very fun! Really.
Point is--and there is a point!--this post, right here, is about as reflectively, soul-baringly ruminative (I just wanted to write that word) as I am likely to get. It has been a soul-killing summer around here. Enthusiasm over socks and aebelskiver and sweaters aside--and those enthusiasms (is that a plural? Spellcheck thinks so. Huh) are genuine--it's been, well, not easy. Not easy, in the scale of have enough money, have a job, have food, have health. In other words, not hard by any standards at all which are real and practical.
And yet. I am, I suspect, mildly depressed. Or burned out. Or... something. See, there's this writing thing I do. Or rather, this writing thing I have not been doing much of at all, this summer, despite the oodles of time. I know what I have to do with Current Project. I have a plot, more or less, which may be the problem, actually. I think I know what's going to happen. When I think I know, I don't see a point in, you know, writing. Learning point: self cannot write to an outline. Self cannot plan. Self has to let the words happen, and the characters happen, and hold tight to the lifeline of theme. But more importantly, self has to sit her ass down and write, which she is not doing on a schedule anymore, and that is death. It is not that I can't write--when I force the sitting, the words come. And then there's what I need to be doing, which is the dreaded query letters and synopses and all that crap. I know what has to be done, and how to do it. I just. Don't. Wanna. That's what baffles me. I don't want to. Since when don't I want to write? The fuck? And since when can't I force myself to do what needs to be done, even when it's unpleasant?
Thus, I am here. Writing. Even this blog counts as words on a page.
So anyway. Moving on. I will get over whatever this is, probably when school starts again, because I think I work best under pressure. Yes. That's it.
Also, I sold my last short story this month. Poor thing has been around since 2008, making the rounds. It went through workshop with my writing group, and I think they nailed its issues. One more revision, and it sold. I am...happy? Validated? Yes. Relieved, yes. Polishing up the first 5K of a novel for a contest at the end of the month. We'll see how that goes. I don't have any feelings about it yet, except that if I enter the novel in a contest, I can dodge the query letter/agent hunt a little longer.
This is me, pretending I am motivated! And career minded! And making progress!
No, what I'm doing is writing a long-ass post no one will read (aha! a real journal entry after all!). Workin' my shit out. Talkin' it through. Maybe I'll start keeping a dead-tree journal again, and spare the interwebz.
But yeah, I'd handwrite in a book, if I wanted to privately ruminate about stuff. I used to do that. The dreaded diary. I think it had a lock, too, although I don't think I ever really got into the whole schtick. I remember keeping that diary when we moved from Oklahoma to Colorado, the year I turned... 12? Yeah. 12. And then, once we'd moved, I got the dog I'd been wanting desperately since I was old enough to say the word, and the diary was discarded in favor of puppy. I've kept more game diaries over the years, for people who live in my head and share a collective reality with a handful of players and a GM. But none for me. Blogging isn't a journal. It's partly reflective. But there's always, always an audience.
It's an interesting rhetorical exercise. I like reading people's blogs, sometimes; other times I wonder why in the hell this person bothers, if all they want to do is carry on like it's the Jenny Jones show (is that even on anymore? I don't know.). I mean, who's the audience for that? And my guess is, the blogger doesn't think anyone reads, or doesn't care, and possibly has the common sense of a small clam. But whatever. I don't read those blogs. I am not a voyeur. And I despise whining and endless recitations of My Personal Drama, which is usually more like a poorly written late-night cable show than reality. Or perhaps it's too much like reality, and I am fortunate in my choices of personal associates. Again, whatever. Also, I think Twitter makes it too damn easy for people to say shit that is better left unsaid. But then, I think most shit is better left unsaid. Makes communication in this household very fun! Really.
Point is--and there is a point!--this post, right here, is about as reflectively, soul-baringly ruminative (I just wanted to write that word) as I am likely to get. It has been a soul-killing summer around here. Enthusiasm over socks and aebelskiver and sweaters aside--and those enthusiasms (is that a plural? Spellcheck thinks so. Huh) are genuine--it's been, well, not easy. Not easy, in the scale of have enough money, have a job, have food, have health. In other words, not hard by any standards at all which are real and practical.
And yet. I am, I suspect, mildly depressed. Or burned out. Or... something. See, there's this writing thing I do. Or rather, this writing thing I have not been doing much of at all, this summer, despite the oodles of time. I know what I have to do with Current Project. I have a plot, more or less, which may be the problem, actually. I think I know what's going to happen. When I think I know, I don't see a point in, you know, writing. Learning point: self cannot write to an outline. Self cannot plan. Self has to let the words happen, and the characters happen, and hold tight to the lifeline of theme. But more importantly, self has to sit her ass down and write, which she is not doing on a schedule anymore, and that is death. It is not that I can't write--when I force the sitting, the words come. And then there's what I need to be doing, which is the dreaded query letters and synopses and all that crap. I know what has to be done, and how to do it. I just. Don't. Wanna. That's what baffles me. I don't want to. Since when don't I want to write? The fuck? And since when can't I force myself to do what needs to be done, even when it's unpleasant?
Thus, I am here. Writing. Even this blog counts as words on a page.
So anyway. Moving on. I will get over whatever this is, probably when school starts again, because I think I work best under pressure. Yes. That's it.
Also, I sold my last short story this month. Poor thing has been around since 2008, making the rounds. It went through workshop with my writing group, and I think they nailed its issues. One more revision, and it sold. I am...happy? Validated? Yes. Relieved, yes. Polishing up the first 5K of a novel for a contest at the end of the month. We'll see how that goes. I don't have any feelings about it yet, except that if I enter the novel in a contest, I can dodge the query letter/agent hunt a little longer.
This is me, pretending I am motivated! And career minded! And making progress!
No, what I'm doing is writing a long-ass post no one will read (aha! a real journal entry after all!). Workin' my shit out. Talkin' it through. Maybe I'll start keeping a dead-tree journal again, and spare the interwebz.
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