Alright. So somehow I have survived to Day #5.
At this point last year, I think I was vegging on the couch watching TV and thinking about how much of a loser I am.
I have attained 9, 503 words. In five days. And although I have to completely re-write the 2,808 words of completely shite I put down to bytes on Sunday and spontaneously changed the lead male's father's title, I'm still slightly ahead of schedule.
Tonight I finally started writing some 'better' stuff. Less boring. As I was discussing with Lena earlier today, I might be the only person to elucidate endlessly on the a-Peeling Reform Crisis*. I think I might be a little heavy handed with my 1830s proselytizing. I am slowly converting to the idea that subtle hints might be all that is necessary to give timeliness to a scene.
Am I the only one who wants to know what kind of toothpaste was used in newly industrialized England?
Here is an excerpt from today's mountain of chaos with the caveat that those stealing my prose will be met with a severe Georgian dressing and an attack cat down the pants:
“And how do you find this Author of Waverly?” For a moment, Anne had no idea how to answer. Was he familiar with the book or not? At her slow rejoinder, Robin laughed. “That well, eh?” His ejaculation was slurred with Devon and she realized that despite his clever façade of London airs he was local. “Yet such fervent devotions towards a volume you appear so apathetic about is almost heroic. Of a long sort.”
“On the contrary,” Anne had finally found her voice, “I find his prose to be quite readable.”
“Such high praise, indeed.” Anne cringed as he moved to open the book, realizing her game was just about up. “While others would bestow such gems as ‘romantic’ and ‘poignant.’ How big-headed the Author of Waverly would become to hear your acc –“ his sentence was cut off mid-sentence as the pamphlet she had secreted between pages 102 and 103 slipped from its mooring in his hands, tumbling unceremoniously to the floor of the library. “What is this?” Anne could answer that, for it was the tattoo of her heart as she realized she was caught.
“Goodness! How did that get in there?” The disassembling query would have been more convincing if her pale face had not suddenly flamed with guilty blood.
“With your ready wit, I would have thought you capable of greater subterfuge than that feeble attempt. You are a horrible liar.” For some moments, Robin looked at the somewhat innocuous pamphlet, still in its papers from the publisher. “I am to assume then that this is also yours?” He stared down at Anne waiting her response.
As she was already blushing, Anne simply nodded. She had quite probably been headed to Hell since the first time she had read the Song of Solomon. Fanny Hill and A Chinese Story were just tributaries on her downward spiral. To her horror, he peeled open the blue wrapper."
* And the only one to get that baaaad joke. Seriously.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
[NaNoWriMo] What am I listening to?
I started making a playlist for my story - not particularly of period specific music - after catching up on all the Spill podcasts this afternoon. I love 'Let's Do This' and 'A Couple of Cold Ones' the best - as the ladies of the 'League of Extremely Ordinary Gentleman' are incredibly shrill and give me a headache.
To give a hint of the impending plot, here's what I have so far:
Seth Lakeman's John Loman
Mostly for the lines: Willingly, I took his place. With my fair love. Willingly, I stole his face, soaked it in blood.
Sufjan Stevens' To Be Alone With You
For the lyrics: I'll never know the man who loved me.
Low vs. Diamond's I'll Be
For the lyrics:
My heart was pure
And I wanted more
So I wait for signs to feel
You offered me the chance to see what’s real
And I wanted all you had
So I’ll close my eyes and see things from the past
Sharon Van Etten's Same Dream
For the lyrics: Betcha don't remember how we met. That's okay, it hasn't happened yet. Although we had the same dream. Although we had the same dream.
To give a hint of the impending plot, here's what I have so far:
Seth Lakeman's John Loman
Mostly for the lines: Willingly, I took his place. With my fair love. Willingly, I stole his face, soaked it in blood.
Sufjan Stevens' To Be Alone With You
For the lyrics: I'll never know the man who loved me.
Low vs. Diamond's I'll Be
For the lyrics:
My heart was pure
And I wanted more
So I wait for signs to feel
You offered me the chance to see what’s real
And I wanted all you had
So I’ll close my eyes and see things from the past
Sharon Van Etten's Same Dream
For the lyrics: Betcha don't remember how we met. That's okay, it hasn't happened yet. Although we had the same dream. Although we had the same dream.
Monday, November 2, 2009
[NaNoWriMo] Odds and Ends
Some excerpts from my fevered brain:
In an action so indicative of Anne after her return to Macao that her intimates would liken it to breathing, she brought a small, white fist to her torso just under the breast bone, holding it there a while before she could gather her wits about her. Beneath the layers of paramatta silk, crinoline, cotton sateen and linen the long links of a locket lay buried between the narrow valley of her breasts. Beneath the gold and glass lay a small likeness done in watercolor, sketched to the specifications of memory by Cassandra’s deft hands while Anne had critiqued and remarked on the progress. In the end, both girls had been satisfied with the disheveled man of remarkable beauty (which Cassandra thought greatly afflicted, but did not venture to say so aloud) that would spend his days between Anne’s skin and cotton shift. In her diary that evening, Anne had simply written: C. has caught the likeness of Robin’s physiognomy with such cleverness that I feel I will not ever lose the memories of the biblio. As per Shangyin: Never let your heart open with the spring flowers: One inch of love is an inch of ashes.
In an action so indicative of Anne after her return to Macao that her intimates would liken it to breathing, she brought a small, white fist to her torso just under the breast bone, holding it there a while before she could gather her wits about her. Beneath the layers of paramatta silk, crinoline, cotton sateen and linen the long links of a locket lay buried between the narrow valley of her breasts. Beneath the gold and glass lay a small likeness done in watercolor, sketched to the specifications of memory by Cassandra’s deft hands while Anne had critiqued and remarked on the progress. In the end, both girls had been satisfied with the disheveled man of remarkable beauty (which Cassandra thought greatly afflicted, but did not venture to say so aloud) that would spend his days between Anne’s skin and cotton shift. In her diary that evening, Anne had simply written: C. has caught the likeness of Robin’s physiognomy with such cleverness that I feel I will not ever lose the memories of the biblio. As per Shangyin: Never let your heart open with the spring flowers: One inch of love is an inch of ashes.
And tonight's:
Sir Gordon’s hospitality – save the addition of two prized deerhounds, Castor and Pollux, who had the run of the place – was both generous and unceremonious. Although everyone dressed for dinner, it was without the stiff formality Anne knew from Chrysanthemum House or London. Her white on white tambored muslin, though less full than that of the adult guests, was both appropriate and timely. Despite Breadon’s assertions to the draftiness of Roseward, the evening was quite warm as the evening storm necessitated closing the windows against the rain. To amuse themselves for the evening, Trebick had had a fire stoked and one of the gentleman guests – Anne thought he had been introduced as a Mr. Bere – had volunteered his services in the manufacture of jam tarts with iron forms native to the castle. She was sharing hers (somewhat unwillingly) with Pollux on the hopes that he was as resilient as his namesake, when Mr. Ramsay, a neighboring landowner, started in again on the tale of the Wish Hound.
[NaNoWriMo] Insanity? Obsession? Corsets?
Officially as of November 1, 2009, I am once again attempting NaNoWriMo. That would be National Novel Writing Month. The rather ambitious goal of which is to write 50,000 words - the length of a 170+ page novel - by the end of November.
Last year, I only made it to some nebulous area of 8-10K words and then burned out. I learned a valuable lesson: if you don't have an outline - or really, no plot even - you are not going to write a 50K novel in one month's time. The second lesson I learned was that Fantasy writing is very hard without some preemptive world building before the actual writing. In much the same way I have wondered a time or two how the use of magic in Dungeons and Dragons would impact human behavior, it is probably a good idea to have parameters.
So this time I have gone where I have only tentatively gone before: a sketchy outline that morphs daily (mostly I pull 8o% of my stories out of my ass while I'm writing it) and the boundary that I need so as not to go all over the place - and then overwhelm myself. The boundary this time is Britain and Portuguese/Chinese Macao of 1825-1831. A time period I enjoy very much and researched extensively while I was living in Japan - although the introduction of Google Books and my proximity to the NYPL make it much easier. As I enjoy the novels of Stephanie Laurens and Eloisa James, I thought I would try my hand at a somewhat gritty romance novel.
And by gritty, I mean somehow my main character, Anne Edwardes, has a half-sister who is half-Macanese (although I don't know if the nativized Portuguese who lived there referred to themselves as such at the time). Unlike her other half-siblings, Lucy has lost the genetic game of roulette and has the very (time-specific) unfavorable features of her distant Chinese antecedents. So she has to remain locked in the House - her only views of life beyond Chrysanthemum House the Spanish garden in the middle of the building and through a looking glass that Anne gives her. I find a lot of similarities to her plight and the Lady of Shallot - and have to work very hard to not become too interested in her story before writing out Anne's more generic one.
There's the whole issue of Anne's (non-practicing, but obviously) homosexual brother, Sebastian. Lucky for me, the period Earl of Devon - whose residence is ironically close to where the Edwardes' English house is - was actually a confirmed (and reputedly quite good looking) homosexual. Although he apparently lived most of his life in America. Yeah, I think gritty is the word.
Right now I just have to worry about murder, lost loves, mistaken identities and corsets. And it seems to be going alright... if I can divorce myself from the constant need for fact checking. If I could put footnotes ala Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell in my novel, I absolutely would.
But I am a nerd.
2808 words on Sunday. 1742 tonight. The goal is the seemingly nefarious total of 1666 words everyday to keep on schedule. And trying not to descend into archaic speak in an attempt to not break character. I asked my Mom if my niece was being "fractious" this evening and knew I was crossing some unspoken line of madness.
Last year, I only made it to some nebulous area of 8-10K words and then burned out. I learned a valuable lesson: if you don't have an outline - or really, no plot even - you are not going to write a 50K novel in one month's time. The second lesson I learned was that Fantasy writing is very hard without some preemptive world building before the actual writing. In much the same way I have wondered a time or two how the use of magic in Dungeons and Dragons would impact human behavior, it is probably a good idea to have parameters.
So this time I have gone where I have only tentatively gone before: a sketchy outline that morphs daily (mostly I pull 8o% of my stories out of my ass while I'm writing it) and the boundary that I need so as not to go all over the place - and then overwhelm myself. The boundary this time is Britain and Portuguese/Chinese Macao of 1825-1831. A time period I enjoy very much and researched extensively while I was living in Japan - although the introduction of Google Books and my proximity to the NYPL make it much easier. As I enjoy the novels of Stephanie Laurens and Eloisa James, I thought I would try my hand at a somewhat gritty romance novel.
And by gritty, I mean somehow my main character, Anne Edwardes, has a half-sister who is half-Macanese (although I don't know if the nativized Portuguese who lived there referred to themselves as such at the time). Unlike her other half-siblings, Lucy has lost the genetic game of roulette and has the very (time-specific) unfavorable features of her distant Chinese antecedents. So she has to remain locked in the House - her only views of life beyond Chrysanthemum House the Spanish garden in the middle of the building and through a looking glass that Anne gives her. I find a lot of similarities to her plight and the Lady of Shallot - and have to work very hard to not become too interested in her story before writing out Anne's more generic one.
There's the whole issue of Anne's (non-practicing, but obviously) homosexual brother, Sebastian. Lucky for me, the period Earl of Devon - whose residence is ironically close to where the Edwardes' English house is - was actually a confirmed (and reputedly quite good looking) homosexual. Although he apparently lived most of his life in America. Yeah, I think gritty is the word.
Right now I just have to worry about murder, lost loves, mistaken identities and corsets. And it seems to be going alright... if I can divorce myself from the constant need for fact checking. If I could put footnotes ala Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell in my novel, I absolutely would.
But I am a nerd.
2808 words on Sunday. 1742 tonight. The goal is the seemingly nefarious total of 1666 words everyday to keep on schedule. And trying not to descend into archaic speak in an attempt to not break character. I asked my Mom if my niece was being "fractious" this evening and knew I was crossing some unspoken line of madness.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Strange Anniversaries
The first anniversary of my father's death has come and gone.
One of the most seminal and heartbreaking things I've ever experienced in my life still resonates. I haven't been able to write anything about my father not couched in pseudonyms and teenage vampiric fluff. Which probably doesn't count.
And I don't think tonight is going to break that strange spell.
So I sigh and offer this:
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
One of the most seminal and heartbreaking things I've ever experienced in my life still resonates. I haven't been able to write anything about my father not couched in pseudonyms and teenage vampiric fluff. Which probably doesn't count.
And I don't think tonight is going to break that strange spell.
So I sigh and offer this:
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dedicated to the One I Love: Jack the Plucky Hybrid
This is my ode to transportation - or lack thereof. Read to the accompaniment of the Shirelles (and not the Mamas and Papa's version in deference to the very squicky Mackenzie Phillips allegations of late):
My beloved hybrid, known colloquially as "Jack" (yes, my car is male), which I have been waivering between selling or keeping has been held hostage by Bay Ridge Honda now for 1.75 weeks.
This has been a mixed blessing.
On one hand, its a reprieve from the constant threat of the New York Parking Syndicate (something my tow-truck driver, Shawn, agreed with me about) and the strange passive aggressive notes that are occasionally pasted on my windows. But on the otherhand, there is the more sanitary issue of laundry (thankfully I own more pairs of pants than Imelda Marcos had shoes) and the need to transport el gato to her weekend sanctuary while I'm in Detroit this weekend.
Let me tell you that New York MTA does not make traveling 30 blocks in Brooklyn very easy. Although thankfully, it only took a little over an hour to get there and back. The plan was simple: a livery driver there (with the cat), a ten minute walk to the subway from Kensington and the X8 from 18th Avenue to the general vicinity of my pad.
The livery driver was a check - and drop dead gorgeous. I've never had that happen before as they're usually secreting nicotine and missing teeth (case in point, I once was in the backseat of a livery driver who admitted to being on Methadone mid-route. Yeah.) With Kai deposited, I walked to the F (which is now, apparently, also routing the G) where the simple act of buying a MetroCard (necessary for riding mass transit in the City) became a study in human folly.
You have the option in buying MetroCards of using either exact change or a debit/credit card. I tried my card first... and none of the unmanned card stations were accepting cards. I only had a $20 and there was no way of making change on that end of the station. Going to the manned end would not have been an issue - except they've been working on "improving" the throughway at Church Avenue for years with no end in sight. No admittance. So I return to the friendly junkies outside the station (who had tried to hit me up for a ciggarette or cash with a very bad rap) and walked down to the other end of the station, a block away where I discovered that none of the six card machines on that end were taking cards either and the station agent's computer was down, so she couldn't pretend to be facile in mathematics. No change. So out of the station again - this time for Walgreen's - where my change making was held up when two Indian women with strollers were accosted for shoplifting. Seriously people, when you're asked for a receipt if all you do is give a slow, stupid smile in response you should just give up criminal enterprises altogether.
Back to the station. This time with exact change. Missed the F by seconds - the conductor actually waved at me, but wouldn't open the doors. Thankfully the next F was express to 18th Avenue, where I caught the x8 with little issue (outside of the walking ciggarette who sat next to me after 50th - can you NOT smell yourself?) I did rediscover Newton's First Law, however, when I was catapulted past three rows of seats, across a metal bar and almost into the driver. Apparently my Docs need to be resoled, since they usually grip really well.
And then I was home.
I really miss Jack the Plucky Hybrid. Did I seriously think I could sell him to thwart the New York Parking Syndicate? After my strange, battery sucking alien flyover the Monday before last (my car and my cell phone completely lost power - thankfully I had thought to pull off the road when the steering suddenly went powerless), I am a little worried about him. The dealership is going to put in a new Hybrid battery (thankfully under warranty) to see if this third suggestion of woe is the culprit. So hopefully, we'll be reunited next week. When I'll have warrant to sing this:
In other news, I just finished Chapter 14 of my increasingly salacious remaking of Twilight. Which brought me just over 45k words. I KNOW I can do NaNoWriMo this year. If my upstairs neighbors stop having incredibly noisy bouts of sex interspersed with Gran Turismo, clearly subscribing to the "Life of International Luxury." (I have to add the caveat that I don't know any of the aforementioned for sure, but have extrapolated through repeated evenings worth of unwholesome goings-on drowned out only by Amaretto and Ryan Adams).
Fortunately, I'm off to Detroit tomorrow so they can subscribe to the old "Click and Dick" to their heart's content.
My beloved hybrid, known colloquially as "Jack" (yes, my car is male), which I have been waivering between selling or keeping has been held hostage by Bay Ridge Honda now for 1.75 weeks.
This has been a mixed blessing.
On one hand, its a reprieve from the constant threat of the New York Parking Syndicate (something my tow-truck driver, Shawn, agreed with me about) and the strange passive aggressive notes that are occasionally pasted on my windows. But on the otherhand, there is the more sanitary issue of laundry (thankfully I own more pairs of pants than Imelda Marcos had shoes) and the need to transport el gato to her weekend sanctuary while I'm in Detroit this weekend.
Let me tell you that New York MTA does not make traveling 30 blocks in Brooklyn very easy. Although thankfully, it only took a little over an hour to get there and back. The plan was simple: a livery driver there (with the cat), a ten minute walk to the subway from Kensington and the X8 from 18th Avenue to the general vicinity of my pad.
The livery driver was a check - and drop dead gorgeous. I've never had that happen before as they're usually secreting nicotine and missing teeth (case in point, I once was in the backseat of a livery driver who admitted to being on Methadone mid-route. Yeah.) With Kai deposited, I walked to the F (which is now, apparently, also routing the G) where the simple act of buying a MetroCard (necessary for riding mass transit in the City) became a study in human folly.
You have the option in buying MetroCards of using either exact change or a debit/credit card. I tried my card first... and none of the unmanned card stations were accepting cards. I only had a $20 and there was no way of making change on that end of the station. Going to the manned end would not have been an issue - except they've been working on "improving" the throughway at Church Avenue for years with no end in sight. No admittance. So I return to the friendly junkies outside the station (who had tried to hit me up for a ciggarette or cash with a very bad rap) and walked down to the other end of the station, a block away where I discovered that none of the six card machines on that end were taking cards either and the station agent's computer was down, so she couldn't pretend to be facile in mathematics. No change. So out of the station again - this time for Walgreen's - where my change making was held up when two Indian women with strollers were accosted for shoplifting. Seriously people, when you're asked for a receipt if all you do is give a slow, stupid smile in response you should just give up criminal enterprises altogether.
Back to the station. This time with exact change. Missed the F by seconds - the conductor actually waved at me, but wouldn't open the doors. Thankfully the next F was express to 18th Avenue, where I caught the x8 with little issue (outside of the walking ciggarette who sat next to me after 50th - can you NOT smell yourself?) I did rediscover Newton's First Law, however, when I was catapulted past three rows of seats, across a metal bar and almost into the driver. Apparently my Docs need to be resoled, since they usually grip really well.
And then I was home.
I really miss Jack the Plucky Hybrid. Did I seriously think I could sell him to thwart the New York Parking Syndicate? After my strange, battery sucking alien flyover the Monday before last (my car and my cell phone completely lost power - thankfully I had thought to pull off the road when the steering suddenly went powerless), I am a little worried about him. The dealership is going to put in a new Hybrid battery (thankfully under warranty) to see if this third suggestion of woe is the culprit. So hopefully, we'll be reunited next week. When I'll have warrant to sing this:
In other news, I just finished Chapter 14 of my increasingly salacious remaking of Twilight. Which brought me just over 45k words. I KNOW I can do NaNoWriMo this year. If my upstairs neighbors stop having incredibly noisy bouts of sex interspersed with Gran Turismo, clearly subscribing to the "Life of International Luxury." (I have to add the caveat that I don't know any of the aforementioned for sure, but have extrapolated through repeated evenings worth of unwholesome goings-on drowned out only by Amaretto and Ryan Adams).
Fortunately, I'm off to Detroit tomorrow so they can subscribe to the old "Click and Dick" to their heart's content.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A blog, by definition requires actually... I don't know... blogging?
In honor of September - the gateway to my favorite month of October - I thought I would update on my social whirl of the roach-that-wasn't, the Bensonhurst street fair that never ends, midnight run-ins with the DEA, the lost virginity of my Cleric and other random things of note.
Firstly: today was an auspicious day. For the first time since I have been gaming (not counting my unrequited love for Gurth Bigbottom's daughter) I have finally had a character that fell in love with - and consummated that love - with an NPC. Apparently, I was just waiting for a Druid with a CHA 25 with thighs of adamanite. Thankfully, despite positing Orla's similarities with Solitaire, I am not losing my religious powers with the demise of my maidenhead. Which is a good thing since I'm the only PC in the group with a positive Strength modifier.
Secondly: a musical interlude from the former folk supergroup Cry, Cry, Cry (Richard Shindell, Dar Williams and Lucy Kaplansky) -->
Thirdly: a tale of shame. So... one evening while I was penning the increasingly salacious pulp fiction (apparently plot is irrelevant if there's lots of skin on skin action, *sigh*) I have been spending far too many brain cells on, I happened to notice an ENORMOUS bug in my light fixture. It was immune to incredibly high pitched screaming. It was immune to the amazingly high jumps of el gato - who lives here to kill sentient beings that enter the apartment that are not me. And it FLEW. I blasted it with Lysol Disenfectant (it was the only aerosol I have in the house), but while destroying the colony of paint bacteria on my Ikea bookshelves the damned bug was immune. (Bug=Bug?)
Suffice it to say, after a panel of witnesses were involved (my 70+ year old landlady and her crew of variously cancerated porch friends) - the consensus was that it was either a (1) waterbug, (2) moth or (3) a figment of my imagination. I tore the apartment down to its base components the following day and found nothing. There aren't even spiders in my apartment. I would like to add that saying: "How can you sleep knowing its there??" is not helpful in abating bug paranoia. But it did get me thinking. I need to hire someone to come over and kill bugs for me. Do you think there's a Craigslist category for that? The ten-thousand-limbed-pedes that occasionally amble through aren't an issue. But bugs that crunch... *shiver*
Fourthly: I am reading Elric of Melnibone. I hate him. I hate him and wish that Stormbringer would just behead him and get things over with. What a whiny, melodramatic, self-absorbed albino. Seriously. I hate that despite his frailty when not actively possessing Stormbringer (who for a demonic soul-drinking sword is pretty awesome, actually) he is apparently a sexual dynamo for whom whole plots are resolved by the sheathing of his other sword - the white one.
I think at heart, he is a proto-Elf archetype. My rancor for elves in general (seconded only by vampires) probably make me less than neutral. ET assures me that Elric is intended as a 1960s era foil to the Conan-type Hero. And apparently a hero to the Blue Oyster Cult. But I can't help but believe that if Moorcock had been a better writer (like Pat Rothfuss caliber) it would all come off less contrived. Anyway...
In closing: There is a street fair in Bensonhurst - a feast in honor of Saint Rosalia - that is the fair that never ends. It has been going on for nearly three weeks now. How much church sponsored elephant ears and merry-go-rounds can you have? Apparently more than three weeks worth in Brooklyn.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
