Showing posts with label eep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eep. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Biblical Baddies - Dogs and Catties
My pets are evil little boogers, frankly. On a biblical scale, even.
Penelope and Gossamer have this tag-team act they have been working out together almost since day one together. Gossy knocks something down. Penny destroys it. They KILLED a really cool ring I had, custom made from a vintage old clip rhinestone earring mounted on a shank. I left it on the counter, Gossy thought it was a toy, Penny thought it was a snack. Bat, bat, BOOM, *nom nom nom* delicious plastic and rhinestones ...
Right little nimrods, my fur-bearing ones.
This morning, they were both downstairs and I was unnerved a little about Penelope being unsupervised, but she's come so far so fast I didn't chase 'em down. Turns out, Goss knocked down two of my four Gala apples and Penny was gnawing and batting them around all over the house. As messes go, not at all bad actually. But I lost my snacks! And one apple (I actually HAD 4) remains unaccounted for ...
I'm going to start calling Gossy "Eve".
And people thought GOSSAMER was a girly name.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Well, THAT Was Loud ...
... and it was my neck. Yoiks.
The little bitty pops and cracks have been going on since the accident, but this was a full on freeze for a minute, and I basically had to pop my neck like people pop their knuckles because (unlike knuckles) it was sort of stuck for a minute.
So that was fun.
Thank goodness it's time for bed! Whee!
The little bitty pops and cracks have been going on since the accident, but this was a full on freeze for a minute, and I basically had to pop my neck like people pop their knuckles because (unlike knuckles) it was sort of stuck for a minute.
So that was fun.
Thank goodness it's time for bed! Whee!
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Pain! The Pain!
Heard five minutes ago on the local nooz:
"Is social media destroying your grammar?"
...
...
No. But you guys are destroying subject-verb agreement AND insulting my intelligence. Nice try.
Next!
"Is social media destroying your grammar?"
...
...
No. But you guys are destroying subject-verb agreement AND insulting my intelligence. Nice try.
Next!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Off It
The story I chose to tell, in Ax, was one I chose - beyond compelling fascination with Clovis I - partially because it has not been done to death. The truth is, it hasn't been done at all in American publishing; and the fact is, that mystifies me.
And yet ...
When I encountered someone recently online, whose own main characters is a seriously important one in Clovis' own life: I can admit, my initial response was one of irrational jealousy. He seems a nice guy. I'm not a total emotional basket case over my story. And it's possible I could even come to enjoy finding a neighbor in my little backwater space.
Plus, he didn't put Clovis front and center. So I don't have to be *too* jealous. Right? Heh.
I've been struck by how funny a sensation it is, though. You think you are alone - and suddenly the solitude is broken, the illusion gone.
And isn't that why we write at all? Composition: co, to be together, position, to put yourself there. I didn't want to tell this story because it could interest nobody else. And I didn't want to tell it only to myself.
Kind of cool. Kind of scary. Just like the rest of writing.
And yet ...
When I encountered someone recently online, whose own main characters is a seriously important one in Clovis' own life: I can admit, my initial response was one of irrational jealousy. He seems a nice guy. I'm not a total emotional basket case over my story. And it's possible I could even come to enjoy finding a neighbor in my little backwater space.
Plus, he didn't put Clovis front and center. So I don't have to be *too* jealous. Right? Heh.
I've been struck by how funny a sensation it is, though. You think you are alone - and suddenly the solitude is broken, the illusion gone.
And isn't that why we write at all? Composition: co, to be together, position, to put yourself there. I didn't want to tell this story because it could interest nobody else. And I didn't want to tell it only to myself.
Kind of cool. Kind of scary. Just like the rest of writing.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Guitarists
One of the fora I belong to has a lively thread right now, discussing authors' expectations - specifically, how it feels for a writer seeing scathingly negative user reviews at Amazon and the like.
I've made a point of developing a process callus; a good level of tolerance for criticism on a piece I am working on. I also have a sort of dividing line, I think - between actual critique and what I think of as "the guitarist at the back of the bar" (someone smarming about perceived shortcomings, but whose commentary has less meaning than the comments of those who put thought into criticism). The Guitarist is the person watching a band on stage, sneering how much better she or he could do than those performing. The Guitarist is speaking more for the value of what he or she has to say than in response to what's really happening live up front. The Guitarist, in terms of literary criticism, is the person reading who "hates" a work because they disagree with choices an author makes, rather than because it's poor storytelling or just not compelling for one reason or other. The Guitarist is the person most likely to come up with cruelty, ugliness, and insult in critique.
The Guitarist is an element I expect to crop up once I am published, but *hope* will not upset me much. Because, very often, Guitarists represent the power of backlash against something particularly large, successful, or culturally prominent ... it's entirely possible I won't hear a lot of their thrumming. Successful as I expect to be, I'm not under any illusions that J. K. Rowling need ever step aside to make room for my publishing accomplishments.
Actual criticism, however, fascinates me.
The critic is someone who really reads, and who develops sincere - and not necessarily emotionally-based - opinions. The critic is someone who may well not like my work - but will be able to say that this is because the subject matter didn't engage them, or because the language was overwrought for their taste, or perhaps because the choices I made didn't work - and here's why. This isn't someone who'll be crowing about what a hack I am, nor insulting me personally for the temerity of writing my novel at all.
The scary thing is that the critic is no one identity.
As I have learned that "historical fiction" has no single set definition - and that an agent claiming to rep it isn't necessarily the agent for me - so it is true that a reader who likes histfic, even military or religious or royal histfic, isn't necessarily going to like my work. Even those who enjoy authors and works I consider similar enough to my own that I've used them in my proto-marketing may not glom to my stuff for one reason or another. I think people who watch Game of Thrones might like The Ax and the Vase - but the Venn diagram illustrating both subsets and any shared audience is never going to come out to a zero sum.
It becomes necessary at some point to honestly realize, and accept, the inevitability that some people who read Ax will dislike it. The question, then, is how much does that matter? I'm not the sort for whom imperviousness to opinion is strong enough I'll be able to just sniff, dismiss, and say "I've sold x-number-of-thousands of copies" and tell critics and myself that it doesn't matter. There are times my state of still being in potential - as opposed to having experienced being published ... being *seen* ... has clear advantages to me. The future can still be so many things. I can still hear my own chords, not that Guitarist at the back of the bar. So far, there's no heckling and jeering to be hurt by, worried about.
I'm still nearly alone with my love of the work I was somehow able to produce. It's recognizeable how precious a time, in some ways, this is.
At the end of the day, though ... the point of picking up the instrument is to play. Is to go out there. Is to present myself to everyone - Guitarists and all.
I may be nervous about that. But it doesn't make me want to quit.
I've made a point of developing a process callus; a good level of tolerance for criticism on a piece I am working on. I also have a sort of dividing line, I think - between actual critique and what I think of as "the guitarist at the back of the bar" (someone smarming about perceived shortcomings, but whose commentary has less meaning than the comments of those who put thought into criticism). The Guitarist is the person watching a band on stage, sneering how much better she or he could do than those performing. The Guitarist is speaking more for the value of what he or she has to say than in response to what's really happening live up front. The Guitarist, in terms of literary criticism, is the person reading who "hates" a work because they disagree with choices an author makes, rather than because it's poor storytelling or just not compelling for one reason or other. The Guitarist is the person most likely to come up with cruelty, ugliness, and insult in critique.
The Guitarist is an element I expect to crop up once I am published, but *hope* will not upset me much. Because, very often, Guitarists represent the power of backlash against something particularly large, successful, or culturally prominent ... it's entirely possible I won't hear a lot of their thrumming. Successful as I expect to be, I'm not under any illusions that J. K. Rowling need ever step aside to make room for my publishing accomplishments.
Actual criticism, however, fascinates me.
The critic is someone who really reads, and who develops sincere - and not necessarily emotionally-based - opinions. The critic is someone who may well not like my work - but will be able to say that this is because the subject matter didn't engage them, or because the language was overwrought for their taste, or perhaps because the choices I made didn't work - and here's why. This isn't someone who'll be crowing about what a hack I am, nor insulting me personally for the temerity of writing my novel at all.
The scary thing is that the critic is no one identity.
As I have learned that "historical fiction" has no single set definition - and that an agent claiming to rep it isn't necessarily the agent for me - so it is true that a reader who likes histfic, even military or religious or royal histfic, isn't necessarily going to like my work. Even those who enjoy authors and works I consider similar enough to my own that I've used them in my proto-marketing may not glom to my stuff for one reason or another. I think people who watch Game of Thrones might like The Ax and the Vase - but the Venn diagram illustrating both subsets and any shared audience is never going to come out to a zero sum.
It becomes necessary at some point to honestly realize, and accept, the inevitability that some people who read Ax will dislike it. The question, then, is how much does that matter? I'm not the sort for whom imperviousness to opinion is strong enough I'll be able to just sniff, dismiss, and say "I've sold x-number-of-thousands of copies" and tell critics and myself that it doesn't matter. There are times my state of still being in potential - as opposed to having experienced being published ... being *seen* ... has clear advantages to me. The future can still be so many things. I can still hear my own chords, not that Guitarist at the back of the bar. So far, there's no heckling and jeering to be hurt by, worried about.
I'm still nearly alone with my love of the work I was somehow able to produce. It's recognizeable how precious a time, in some ways, this is.
At the end of the day, though ... the point of picking up the instrument is to play. Is to go out there. Is to present myself to everyone - Guitarists and all.
I may be nervous about that. But it doesn't make me want to quit.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Extremities: Work!
I'll just tell The Story of Today here as I told it to Mr. X ...
***
Today has been one of those days that try the worthiness of any paycheck. I think I told you yesterday about the situation with the wrong name on a new hire. Today, I came in and began to tackle the outstanding issues, because I needed to do that to distract myself. (My sick friend) has been on my mind, and I was pushing through. I know I blow on and on about how great I am at work - but since coming here, I really DO take especial pride in it, and put in very high effort as well. So today I determined to deal with my weepiness and distraction, and beat on it with a lot of very concrete, very useful action. I lobbed a lot of "please confirm" and "let me know what to do" around and felt next steps should be progress.
By 2:00 I could see three new hires whose accounts (though background is confirmed cleared) were still not enabled. I had also just received word that the huge several-days of meetings I'd set and begun firming up had been blown out of the water. So I'm working to (a) reach out on the accounts, and (b) find new meeting space, which in a twelve-bank system spanning the nation, I probably need not tell you is not a minor job. And (coworker) is pinging me a LOT asking about progress on (b) - to the point where I sort of gave her a sit-down via text and told her I was having to prioritize the new hires' accounts, and was working on the meeting as I could. In a few minutes, I was midway down my existing list, and compiling the (grim/lack of) results already. I fired those off and commenced a new round of calls on the accounts.
In the end, it took until midafternoon for me to winkle out that the account contact was out - so I followed her voice mail's instructions and left a message at the service center. Who "usually respond within an hour." An hour and a half later, I am calling again, and receive the instruction to call the central Help Desk. Which: no. This is almost as good as the time I did call the central HD and received the instruction, regarding my broken printer, "contact your department admin."
Sigh.
So today has been a war zone, and ever-increasingly stressful. I just received my ping that my 5:00 "dailies" are due for my boss - a pinger I am usually ahead of by a couple of hours. I haven't even looked at his day tomorrow, so this could run me into overtime - I can't expect to get out of here anything like on time - and I've got grass to mow, and limited daylight to do it (though I don't think we did get the rain I was hearing about).
Oh and then there was the trip to the restroom, where one paper seat cover fell in before I could get situated. The second - thanks to The Wonder of Modern Technology - auto-flushed even as I was READY (ahem) to get situated, but not quite there yet. So I stood there and pulled out a third, so stressed at this point (and no puppies handy to poke in the eyeballs), literally screaming just a little bit from frustration.
Anyway. I finally reach a relevant human body on the new accounts and learn that the background clearance hasn't come through. Which I know I saw yesterday MORNING - and here we are, it's after 4:00 p.m. I reach out to HR and leave a message saying as sweetly (as someone can who is in an emotional state to gleefully poke puppies in the eye by now) as I can, please LET ME KNOW WHAT I CAN DO. I'm hardly off the phone when my phone rings again - and it's Relevant Human Body, saying, "gee, found that clearance - with so-and-so out, I hadn't looked today - hey thanks for the reminder."
Bits of me keep passing out at this point, and I believe my brains and some strategically important teeth and organs fell out on my desk.
So ... because so-and-so was out of the office ... nobody LOOKED FOR CLEARANCES ... ??? Is what you are telling me?
Yeah. You are welcome for that REMINDER.
Within ten minutes, three confirmations banged into my inbox in QUICK succession. Bam! Bam! Bam! New acconts, all enabled.
Dang.
Off to set up the dailies and GTFO if you get my drift. The confirmations did help me out, but just having the backwash of stress like this is enough to make you want to bolt.
***
Today has been one of those days that try the worthiness of any paycheck. I think I told you yesterday about the situation with the wrong name on a new hire. Today, I came in and began to tackle the outstanding issues, because I needed to do that to distract myself. (My sick friend) has been on my mind, and I was pushing through. I know I blow on and on about how great I am at work - but since coming here, I really DO take especial pride in it, and put in very high effort as well. So today I determined to deal with my weepiness and distraction, and beat on it with a lot of very concrete, very useful action. I lobbed a lot of "please confirm" and "let me know what to do" around and felt next steps should be progress.
By 2:00 I could see three new hires whose accounts (though background is confirmed cleared) were still not enabled. I had also just received word that the huge several-days of meetings I'd set and begun firming up had been blown out of the water. So I'm working to (a) reach out on the accounts, and (b) find new meeting space, which in a twelve-bank system spanning the nation, I probably need not tell you is not a minor job. And (coworker) is pinging me a LOT asking about progress on (b) - to the point where I sort of gave her a sit-down via text and told her I was having to prioritize the new hires' accounts, and was working on the meeting as I could. In a few minutes, I was midway down my existing list, and compiling the (grim/lack of) results already. I fired those off and commenced a new round of calls on the accounts.
In the end, it took until midafternoon for me to winkle out that the account contact was out - so I followed her voice mail's instructions and left a message at the service center. Who "usually respond within an hour." An hour and a half later, I am calling again, and receive the instruction to call the central Help Desk. Which: no. This is almost as good as the time I did call the central HD and received the instruction, regarding my broken printer, "contact your department admin."
Sigh.
So today has been a war zone, and ever-increasingly stressful. I just received my ping that my 5:00 "dailies" are due for my boss - a pinger I am usually ahead of by a couple of hours. I haven't even looked at his day tomorrow, so this could run me into overtime - I can't expect to get out of here anything like on time - and I've got grass to mow, and limited daylight to do it (though I don't think we did get the rain I was hearing about).
Oh and then there was the trip to the restroom, where one paper seat cover fell in before I could get situated. The second - thanks to The Wonder of Modern Technology - auto-flushed even as I was READY (ahem) to get situated, but not quite there yet. So I stood there and pulled out a third, so stressed at this point (and no puppies handy to poke in the eyeballs), literally screaming just a little bit from frustration.
Anyway. I finally reach a relevant human body on the new accounts and learn that the background clearance hasn't come through. Which I know I saw yesterday MORNING - and here we are, it's after 4:00 p.m. I reach out to HR and leave a message saying as sweetly (as someone can who is in an emotional state to gleefully poke puppies in the eye by now) as I can, please LET ME KNOW WHAT I CAN DO. I'm hardly off the phone when my phone rings again - and it's Relevant Human Body, saying, "gee, found that clearance - with so-and-so out, I hadn't looked today - hey thanks for the reminder."
Bits of me keep passing out at this point, and I believe my brains and some strategically important teeth and organs fell out on my desk.
So ... because so-and-so was out of the office ... nobody LOOKED FOR CLEARANCES ... ??? Is what you are telling me?
Yeah. You are welcome for that REMINDER.
Within ten minutes, three confirmations banged into my inbox in QUICK succession. Bam! Bam! Bam! New acconts, all enabled.
Dang.
Off to set up the dailies and GTFO if you get my drift. The confirmations did help me out, but just having the backwash of stress like this is enough to make you want to bolt.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Back to You, Chet
Aftermathematics ...
***
I do think we have had several tremors since - but nothing approaching the scale of the main event. Mostly, just the same sorts of wobbles our building is prone to on its own resonating steam (have I told you about that? It vibrates so much some days I - no lie - get dizzy watching my monitor bob up and down. The low-key-ness of the effect can be vertiginous. So a LOT of us thought at first that was what we were experiencing, but it was SO strong - and just kept on GOING - to the point we stopped being angry at the architect and Facilities Management, and sobered up to what was happening pretty quick.
Apparently, the new guy, Doe, had said at lunch he'd never experienced an earthquake. Less than 20 minutes before one HAPPENED.
I'ma be nice to that guy Doe, I tellya.
Now, home again, I haven't found any damages yet, just a lot of stuff slightly shifted around. I'm kind of amazed none of the several glass things I bought over the weekend didn't fall from their high perches, but apparently they had good purchase and held their own. One is amusingly close to the edge of the mantel, though - I might photograph that because for some reason it cracks me up (that it didn't crack - down!). Kind of laughed when I put some groceries away and had trouble closing the cabinet door because "objects apparently shifted during the flight" or something.
Sid wanted nothing but to go outside and get the HELL away from me. So she is out hollering at neighbor dogs going by, and soaking up some reassuring golden sunshine. Aww.
***
I do think we have had several tremors since - but nothing approaching the scale of the main event. Mostly, just the same sorts of wobbles our building is prone to on its own resonating steam (have I told you about that? It vibrates so much some days I - no lie - get dizzy watching my monitor bob up and down. The low-key-ness of the effect can be vertiginous. So a LOT of us thought at first that was what we were experiencing, but it was SO strong - and just kept on GOING - to the point we stopped being angry at the architect and Facilities Management, and sobered up to what was happening pretty quick.
Apparently, the new guy, Doe, had said at lunch he'd never experienced an earthquake. Less than 20 minutes before one HAPPENED.
I'ma be nice to that guy Doe, I tellya.
Now, home again, I haven't found any damages yet, just a lot of stuff slightly shifted around. I'm kind of amazed none of the several glass things I bought over the weekend didn't fall from their high perches, but apparently they had good purchase and held their own. One is amusingly close to the edge of the mantel, though - I might photograph that because for some reason it cracks me up (that it didn't crack - down!). Kind of laughed when I put some groceries away and had trouble closing the cabinet door because "objects apparently shifted during the flight" or something.
Sid wanted nothing but to go outside and get the HELL away from me. So she is out hollering at neighbor dogs going by, and soaking up some reassuring golden sunshine. Aww.
Pass-saic (yeah, running low on 'em now)
Further adventures in email (yes, I know these are repetitive - I *said* this would be an unedited mosaic!):
***
3.7 miles underground was the last I heard.
I really have never felt anything like that. It's not that we've never had them, but as I said earlier I think - around here, "earthquake" means one boom. A sustained and serious shake like this was unbelievable - a terribly surreal experience, in the way you at first refuse to process it, and then angrily your brain wants to refute it. Then of course you sort of realize ... POWER. Which is enough to give anyone heartburn.
I was out over lunch, less than an hour (less than half an hour) before it hit, and the day was hot, golden, dry - beautiful. As it still is, of course - but so peaceful.
Really bizarre
***
3.7 miles underground was the last I heard.
I really have never felt anything like that. It's not that we've never had them, but as I said earlier I think - around here, "earthquake" means one boom. A sustained and serious shake like this was unbelievable - a terribly surreal experience, in the way you at first refuse to process it, and then angrily your brain wants to refute it. Then of course you sort of realize ... POWER. Which is enough to give anyone heartburn.
I was out over lunch, less than an hour (less than half an hour) before it hit, and the day was hot, golden, dry - beautiful. As it still is, of course - but so peaceful.
Really bizarre
Pro-saic
The massive emotional impact of the quake:
***
I was scared myself, I've never felt a quake like that before, and there's something to be said for the sensibility we have as humans regarding the solidity of the ground beneath our feet. At this point, I have a sustained headache of a unique variety - not of a type I haven't had before, but of a type I don't get regularly, and the distraction is palling mightily.
It's a really stupid observation (and no longer a joke, saying this for the sixtieth time this afternoon), but I am shaken, and really want to go home. I want to see what is broken and take care of the Sidster and shuck these clothes, frankly, which really smell like nerve-sweat to me. I want to walk with her, and feel that ground beneath our feet. Oh that poor old thing. I feel so bad for her.
***
I was scared myself, I've never felt a quake like that before, and there's something to be said for the sensibility we have as humans regarding the solidity of the ground beneath our feet. At this point, I have a sustained headache of a unique variety - not of a type I haven't had before, but of a type I don't get regularly, and the distraction is palling mightily.
It's a really stupid observation (and no longer a joke, saying this for the sixtieth time this afternoon), but I am shaken, and really want to go home. I want to see what is broken and take care of the Sidster and shuck these clothes, frankly, which really smell like nerve-sweat to me. I want to walk with her, and feel that ground beneath our feet. Oh that poor old thing. I feel so bad for her.
More-saic
From an early email today to X ...
***
The quake was a 5.8 magnitude, and centered RIGHT HERE. Z felt it in Brooklyn, and apparently it was felt in NC as well. I had things falling, and it was definitely scary. Sustained. Not typical for an eastern seaboard quake. We've had no evac and no damage to the building, but I suspect I will have one disgruntled pup on my hands in a few hours when I go home. I called mom and her response was that she's NEVER here for the really scary stuff (she missed Isabel several years ago, and a tornado once too). I mean, naturally that'd be the response - that "are you okay?" thing is strictly for amateurs, right?
Heh.
***
The quake was a 5.8 magnitude, and centered RIGHT HERE. Z felt it in Brooklyn, and apparently it was felt in NC as well. I had things falling, and it was definitely scary. Sustained. Not typical for an eastern seaboard quake. We've had no evac and no damage to the building, but I suspect I will have one disgruntled pup on my hands in a few hours when I go home. I called mom and her response was that she's NEVER here for the really scary stuff (she missed Isabel several years ago, and a tornado once too). I mean, naturally that'd be the response - that "are you okay?" thing is strictly for amateurs, right?
Heh.
Further Assurances
Some thoughts from a post I placed at Historical Fiction Online ...
***
The epicenter was only several miles from me, and we really shook, but the general area appears to be fine. We didn't even evacuate at work (formally, anyway - tons of folks toddled off with their laptops, though; any excuse!), BUT the tremor did last unusually long for central VA. We've had quakes here before, but they tend to consist of one single BOOM moment, which you can actually miss even if it's big. This was a sustained, clearly wavy, shake, and things did fall, but the essential upshot appears to be more broken pottery and jangled nerves than anything else.
Though it was a pretty good magnitude for this area at 5.8, the origin was also 3.7 miles beneath the surface, so the effect was very queer, and not sharp as it were.
I came home to a Siddy-pup VERY offended that yet again I had left her ALONE to suffer death, and a whole lot of "shifted during the flight" sorts of stuff in my cupboards etc. - but, remarkably, nothing I have found yet appears to have been damaged, nor anything fallen. Which, considering how much time and money I spent in antique stores wandering home with new pieces of beautiful glass just this past weekend (of COURSE), is pretty amazing!
It was in fact scarier after it passed and realization set in than during -when it was almost comical in some ways. Afterward, hearing one of my coworkers calling his scared-sounding kids, and being so smart, and so reassuring, and so generous with them and calm, was really affecting. They sounded stark terrified, and he was just wonderful for them.
I am okay and my dog is milkin' it. And I am encouraging her to. Good old girl.
***
The epicenter was only several miles from me, and we really shook, but the general area appears to be fine. We didn't even evacuate at work (formally, anyway - tons of folks toddled off with their laptops, though; any excuse!), BUT the tremor did last unusually long for central VA. We've had quakes here before, but they tend to consist of one single BOOM moment, which you can actually miss even if it's big. This was a sustained, clearly wavy, shake, and things did fall, but the essential upshot appears to be more broken pottery and jangled nerves than anything else.
Though it was a pretty good magnitude for this area at 5.8, the origin was also 3.7 miles beneath the surface, so the effect was very queer, and not sharp as it were.
I came home to a Siddy-pup VERY offended that yet again I had left her ALONE to suffer death, and a whole lot of "shifted during the flight" sorts of stuff in my cupboards etc. - but, remarkably, nothing I have found yet appears to have been damaged, nor anything fallen. Which, considering how much time and money I spent in antique stores wandering home with new pieces of beautiful glass just this past weekend (of COURSE), is pretty amazing!
It was in fact scarier after it passed and realization set in than during -when it was almost comical in some ways. Afterward, hearing one of my coworkers calling his scared-sounding kids, and being so smart, and so reassuring, and so generous with them and calm, was really affecting. They sounded stark terrified, and he was just wonderful for them.
I am okay and my dog is milkin' it. And I am encouraging her to. Good old girl.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Lists and Dreams
The priest preached this morning about Jacob's Ladder, and said that dreams might still - even with modern theories of psychology, and dream interpretation, and physiology - be gifts from G-d. I've never had a dream such as she described, which had me waking rested and stronger.
But just now I did have a dream about an agent coming to this blog and, unqueried, contacting me because they were so interested in my work.
Heh. I think I know where that one came from.
In other news ... that resource I am working through now, to create a new list, so far has yielded something like fifty names - and I am less than halfway through cherry-picking it. I don't know whether to be daunted or pleased.
I could almost hope this could be the last list I will have to put together and research. Good grief, this will take a while ...
But just now I did have a dream about an agent coming to this blog and, unqueried, contacting me because they were so interested in my work.
Heh. I think I know where that one came from.
In other news ... that resource I am working through now, to create a new list, so far has yielded something like fifty names - and I am less than halfway through cherry-picking it. I don't know whether to be daunted or pleased.
I could almost hope this could be the last list I will have to put together and research. Good grief, this will take a while ...
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Yan to My Yang ... Or Something ...
Just walked The Lolly, and out in front of the local tavern, a guy got out of his car to go inside ... and I have found X's evil twin. Wow, but for the (salient) fact this guy is like 6 or 8 inches shorter than X is - the features, the profile, the coloring, even the weight of his hair and the way it lies were JUST like X.
It's almost enough to make me want to go brush my teeth and put on a sundress, go out for a drink. Wow.
The height, of course, is sadly a dealbreaker. Plus, this guy was wearing a yellow shirt. X would never put on a yellow shirt.
Mr. Y.
All told - certainly interesting to actually see an attractive man, though. Don't seem to come across those much anymore.
***
X has always said he has an Evil Twin out there somewhere.
My thinking is, he's probably the Evil one himself. Heh.
Anyway, Mr. Y was wearing a yellow polo short. Evil people don't wear yellow, and rarely polo shirts.
(Unless the collar is "popped". Then all bets are off, and there is the evil twin.)
It's almost enough to make me want to go brush my teeth and put on a sundress, go out for a drink. Wow.
The height, of course, is sadly a dealbreaker. Plus, this guy was wearing a yellow shirt. X would never put on a yellow shirt.
Mr. Y.
All told - certainly interesting to actually see an attractive man, though. Don't seem to come across those much anymore.
***
X has always said he has an Evil Twin out there somewhere.
My thinking is, he's probably the Evil one himself. Heh.
Anyway, Mr. Y was wearing a yellow polo short. Evil people don't wear yellow, and rarely polo shirts.
(Unless the collar is "popped". Then all bets are off, and there is the evil twin.)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
All Your Toupees Are Belong to Us
As a rule, I don't find celebrity meltdowns to be of much interest, but this week's Mad Men festivities are strangely intriguing. We've got Muammar Gaddafi on the one hand, positive "his people" (ahem) are very much in love with him when they are screaming for his blood; and Charlie Sheen on the other, declaring nothing less than WAR on the hand that feeds him (hilariously suggesting that his lawsuit will be figured at the princely sum of "more gold ... more gold ... all your toupees" and no thin whack of revenge for the slights performed upon his raging ego).
The invocation of war is interesting to me in particular. I've encountered people who consider infractions against their sensibilities some sort of cause for "war", and seem to have no more idea how entirely bizarre a path of logic that is than Sheen has of how he's playing. Tone. Deaf. But fascinating. The off-his-nut fury of his delivery, with the hermetically perfect bubble of un-self-awareness, is ... interestingly over the top. This is a guy with zero sense of his audience, but 100% commitment to his "passion" (see yesterday's post regarding *that* nomenclature), which he so devoutly swears Is. Not. Anger.
Uh huh.
Of course, he also thinks it's great that his toddler children are blessed with such a "rockstar" dad, and have porn stars and nannies to raise them in a great big polygamous happy home. Where their mom is doesn't appear to have held much interest for the reporters so gleefully focused on this car-wreck-not-to-be-missed shambles of a "man".
He also seems to be under the impression his brain is special and, though he's incapable of adequately choosing adjectives, clearly superior to "everyone else". No read on the room, and far gone to any ability to regard himself in any way, least of all with the slightest objectivity.
And so Charlie Sheen has declared war. He has SUFFERED, and will punish that (supposedly) billion dollars worth of people who enable his insufferable career by annihilating them. With his special brain.
The requirement that one must declare war is one so entirely outside the realm of normal human behavior I find myself fascinated by how easily this guy comes to the 'cause' ... and how heartbreakingly committed he is to this piece of off-his-nuttery. I have NEVER liked Charlie Sheen, but wishing his various children ill is beyond my capability, and what he is doing to them simply being the geriatric slut hound and adolescent wannabe-rebel that he is is actually sad. This is a man who, with all the physical appearance of a cancer-stricken eighty-year-old, perceives himself as an Adonis, and considers not at all the slightest contribution he might have to make to the world, what he might give, as a man, to any other person. He's gone, and really always has been, and the fact that he's tearing down other people - and finds that JUSTIFIED - is more than a little sickening.
Of course, these are people who - voluntarily or not - hitched their wagons to a guy whose sole claim to cleverness in the twenty-six-or-seven years he's been plaguing us with his "talents" is that line about the toupees. That show of his has been an offense against good entertainment (and even an offense against TELEVISION - which is pretty much *comprised* of egregiously offensive content-for-money) from day one, and those people will mostly find another way to make a living. So I I feel about the same level of pity for them that I felt for the chilly little number who married that WHACKO adulterer I once worked with, who - being a man of no ethics and no sanity himself - finally left her for his mistress. He wasn't a fine person in the first place, and she committed to him and to what he was - then divorced her for the newer model (... I wonder if he declared WAR on her ... that'd be typical of that manner of a "man"), there's a pretty fair extent to which I figure Chilly got what she signed up for, marrying Bat-Splat-Crazy-Unethical-Man. Likewise, following the star of Charlie Sheen. No respect for women, no respect for himself, nowhere remotely in the region of talent most people would calculate as appropriate to his gargantuan paychecks, and no interest in considering himself as a human being, nor in any other human being outside his ever-more-flaccid-and-ashen skin.
When I first met X, a very VERY slight treble in the timbre in his voice reminded me of Charlie Sheen. That's the closest I can come to saying I have ever considered Sheen's existence in personal terms, beyond simple/generational awareness of him. He used to have okay hair, but I always thought the combo hawk-package of that overwrought chin and beak of his were a bit much for the level of appeal he was apparently able to exert (on prostotutes anyway ...). So it's strange to find him at all relevant, and so the interest I'm exhibiting is sort of like that for a snake in a glass case. Though I like snakes as much as the next guy, actually.
It is Week of the Whacko Boys, people. Thursday and Friday will be positively dull ...
(I know I left out Wednesday. But tonight has America's Next Top Model going for it!)
The invocation of war is interesting to me in particular. I've encountered people who consider infractions against their sensibilities some sort of cause for "war", and seem to have no more idea how entirely bizarre a path of logic that is than Sheen has of how he's playing. Tone. Deaf. But fascinating. The off-his-nut fury of his delivery, with the hermetically perfect bubble of un-self-awareness, is ... interestingly over the top. This is a guy with zero sense of his audience, but 100% commitment to his "passion" (see yesterday's post regarding *that* nomenclature), which he so devoutly swears Is. Not. Anger.
Uh huh.
Of course, he also thinks it's great that his toddler children are blessed with such a "rockstar" dad, and have porn stars and nannies to raise them in a great big polygamous happy home. Where their mom is doesn't appear to have held much interest for the reporters so gleefully focused on this car-wreck-not-to-be-missed shambles of a "man".
He also seems to be under the impression his brain is special and, though he's incapable of adequately choosing adjectives, clearly superior to "everyone else". No read on the room, and far gone to any ability to regard himself in any way, least of all with the slightest objectivity.
And so Charlie Sheen has declared war. He has SUFFERED, and will punish that (supposedly) billion dollars worth of people who enable his insufferable career by annihilating them. With his special brain.
The requirement that one must declare war is one so entirely outside the realm of normal human behavior I find myself fascinated by how easily this guy comes to the 'cause' ... and how heartbreakingly committed he is to this piece of off-his-nuttery. I have NEVER liked Charlie Sheen, but wishing his various children ill is beyond my capability, and what he is doing to them simply being the geriatric slut hound and adolescent wannabe-rebel that he is is actually sad. This is a man who, with all the physical appearance of a cancer-stricken eighty-year-old, perceives himself as an Adonis, and considers not at all the slightest contribution he might have to make to the world, what he might give, as a man, to any other person. He's gone, and really always has been, and the fact that he's tearing down other people - and finds that JUSTIFIED - is more than a little sickening.
Of course, these are people who - voluntarily or not - hitched their wagons to a guy whose sole claim to cleverness in the twenty-six-or-seven years he's been plaguing us with his "talents" is that line about the toupees. That show of his has been an offense against good entertainment (and even an offense against TELEVISION - which is pretty much *comprised* of egregiously offensive content-for-money) from day one, and those people will mostly find another way to make a living. So I I feel about the same level of pity for them that I felt for the chilly little number who married that WHACKO adulterer I once worked with, who - being a man of no ethics and no sanity himself - finally left her for his mistress. He wasn't a fine person in the first place, and she committed to him and to what he was - then divorced her for the newer model (... I wonder if he declared WAR on her ... that'd be typical of that manner of a "man"), there's a pretty fair extent to which I figure Chilly got what she signed up for, marrying Bat-Splat-Crazy-Unethical-Man. Likewise, following the star of Charlie Sheen. No respect for women, no respect for himself, nowhere remotely in the region of talent most people would calculate as appropriate to his gargantuan paychecks, and no interest in considering himself as a human being, nor in any other human being outside his ever-more-flaccid-and-ashen skin.
When I first met X, a very VERY slight treble in the timbre in his voice reminded me of Charlie Sheen. That's the closest I can come to saying I have ever considered Sheen's existence in personal terms, beyond simple/generational awareness of him. He used to have okay hair, but I always thought the combo hawk-package of that overwrought chin and beak of his were a bit much for the level of appeal he was apparently able to exert (on prostotutes anyway ...). So it's strange to find him at all relevant, and so the interest I'm exhibiting is sort of like that for a snake in a glass case. Though I like snakes as much as the next guy, actually.
It is Week of the Whacko Boys, people. Thursday and Friday will be positively dull ...
(I know I left out Wednesday. But tonight has America's Next Top Model going for it!)
Friday, January 7, 2011
SHOCK
I came home today and had received an email from "Mary Sue Doe" ... The agent who has my full in hand right now is named Mary Sue D'oh-ish, and so for a fraction of a second, my eyeballs perceived in my Inbox the potential for ... An Answer.
***
Huh.
And I'd thought X was the only person whose emails could get a splash of adrenaline quite like that out of me.
Live and learn.
***
Though X is still something rather more personally fierce, even than Good Writing Stuff.
***
Huh.
And I'd thought X was the only person whose emails could get a splash of adrenaline quite like that out of me.
Live and learn.
***
Though X is still something rather more personally fierce, even than Good Writing Stuff.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Curled Up ... and A Good Book, too
Just as I'm posting the photo of my dear old curled up beautiful dog, I get the email from the second Conference agent (the first sent me my R last week, but that was nothing less than I had expected - and this is the one who requested the full!), asking me to resend the file. Seems she could not open it.
Here's hoping she spends a little time enjoying it this weekend.
***
I still don't have breath-held expectations of success with this query; I know her agency does histfic, but she does not. So it was a thrill for her to ask for the manuscript. But it is still kind of nice to know a query's at the top of a slush pile, just a week before the first meeting of the SBC.
Here's hoping she spends a little time enjoying it this weekend.
***
I still don't have breath-held expectations of success with this query; I know her agency does histfic, but she does not. So it was a thrill for her to ask for the manuscript. But it is still kind of nice to know a query's at the top of a slush pile, just a week before the first meeting of the SBC.
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