we had snow and inbetween headaches I went out sledding with Cheese

The cat insisted on going out too but then regretted it

I really like Christmas lights



Much much better,
headache was off and on for a week, but is finally gone. I named it Pith. Pain in the head.
I spent this past week cleaning and getting ready for yesterday's Christmas get together at my house.
Tomorrow we go cookie making with my mom, and Cheese's cousins.
And I will drag him to the library near-ish her house, because I think that one will let me take out the History of Private Life books I think will help me with my research. I also intend to rent something from the library or video store, some lighthearted chic flic. Yes, I am a woman with many great ambitions and plans, make cookies, eat cookies, get books, get movies, sit on butt.
Sadly, so sadly, I shall also have to exercise at some point, or I will regain the weight I lost on my house cleaning "don't get to sit down for a second" diet. I actually have little black and blues on my knees and arms from floor and tile scrubbing.
Day after tomorrow I hope to go visiting and see what you all are up to.

by the bye
while I was waiting for blogger to download these pictures I went off to the cutest blog on the block site, and I have yet to decide on which background to use, so it may change frequently for a while.

headache. Had it since Saturday night, gets better gets worse. Sometimes in left eye, always at base of head-neck. It likes to pound in the top of my head when I bend foreward. Using computer makes it worse, so I wont be around much. I had planned on doing some visiting. Maybe tomorrow.
Theories of cause (because I like having them)- dehydration, lack of sleep, neck strain, radical weather changes.

Waiting for Tylenol to do something magical.

Time for me to get ready; going to a family reunion today. To see people I see at best, once a year. (There was a time when a lot more people would have been there, a time when we saw each other a lot more often, but the older generations, the ones who had the closest ties to each other, have passed on, and most of the younger generations have moved away.) I am always nervous in social situations, especially without a nice buffer to place me within a setting of people among them (like if my Brother and his family lived close enough to go to this get together; or if my Nana and Pop were still alive. Then I would feel snug and cloistered, feeling connected to the people that connect me to these other people) but still it is really good to them. To keep some connection with my Nana's people. We are all connected in one way or another...we are family.

And Cheese, who is always resistant to such gatherings ( and to any sort of leaving the house on Saturday and Sunday. "Today is my day OFF! I should not have to go anywhere.") seems okay about it, as he has categorized this get together in his mind under Chichen fingers with mustard sauce, chips, soda, and desserts. I know this because he keeps asking, "Now this place we are going on Saturday, this is the fried chicken fingers with mustard sauce place?" Me- "Yes" Cheese shakes his head and says, "Okay." God help us if they have changed the food they have ordered to serve this year. My son will look at me like he has been tricked, evilly misled...not by his own expectaions, but by me. And with an indignant tone that will keep asking me to conjur some up out of the air.

sometimes writing, is a knowing, sometimes it is throwing darts in the dark.
I've just been doing the latter.

I haven't been able to stop wedging chairs infront of the doors, even though it has been well over a month since I saw that guy walking through our yard at 10:30 PM. For the past few weeks I have been able to stop having the flood lights on at night.
I thought I had a problem I should be getting over by now....
BUT
One of my neighbors called me today and asked if I had heard about all the car break-ins in our neighborhood (about 10) (it is a cul-de-sac of about 30 homes). She told me she thinks one of the homes was broken into as well; and that a few neighborhoods over, some lady's house was broken into and she was abducted. (I'm hoping that last one isn't accurate.)
Horrible. I like to be paranoid without cause.
Oh well, those chairs aren't going anywhere,
and it's back on with the flood lights!


by the bye,
the black sandal (Bob's) is necessary to keep the basement door open for the cat. (location of cat loo)

Don't poke a rabid dog

I think I'm going to have to exercise, though it is getting late, and I don't feel like it. I must do something to control the thunder that shakes me, and the cold rain pelting my insides.

I don't know if this is an upside, but, my mood is now so intense and pervasive that it doesn't cling to writing, no not at all, I find I keep slipping into furry at those around me. Their moods are horrid too. Three feral beasts housed in a small space. We did better briefly while out running errands, and thought we would return more reasonable, but each beast has again unleashed on the others.
I for one feel no guilt whatsoever at the present for any time I spend writing. I do plenty of housework, feels like I am constantly cleaning up after everyone. Constanly. LORD am I cranky.
Okay well
:)
Hopefully we will all have tomorrow together and do much better.

Losing Faith

It's a sad horrible feeling. Decorating the house, stringing lights, weaving garlands, feeling bleak inside. Losing faith in myself, my abilites, my writing, my stories. Falling falling falling down; searching for some branch to cling to, wondering if I must hit bottom; and how long it will take. Trying to focus on the next one, in moving on; but asking why? Why do it at all if I can't make anything of value, anything worth sharing? Yes I know the answer, and Bob has echoed it already this morning, "for yourself, your are writing the stories for you." Yes, but how sad that makes me today, a circle of one. I will write, for it is how I am made, but I have nothing to give. And while I never cared if anyone else appreciated my painting, they seemed complete in themselves. If I hung it on a wall and liked looking at it, it had all the meaning and value that it and I desired. But an unread story, is not complete, it is unused, unknown, it longs to tell. It can't be hung on a wall, glimpsed and grasped by passersby. Someone has to sit with it, and turn it page by page. Sit still and listen, a long time, wanting to know. Wanting to know what is contained inside. Wanting to find themselves somehow reflected there, somehow contained within these pages written by another. (I guess my stories only contain me. That though I see them as full, they lack scope and space. ) Yes I will go on writing, the stories will tell me, and I will tell the stories, but we are a world alone.

Researching for the next story
off to a France of long ago
searching for the beginning
but also finding out that which comes before the beginning.
Perhaps finally,
I will learn some history.
In school, I never thought of such information as tinder for igniting my own stories, thus it all went on, blah blah blah, and went away, taking no hold within me. (you would think they would have held meaning for me in and of themselves, as they should,...sometimes.)
Now for me the information holds possibilites, different doors I can walk through, creating different stories, different realities for my characters. And suddenly I am interested in the past, the way a chef is interested in good, fresh, seasonal ingredients. Seeing what I have to work with, getting inspired. Rooting my present idea, into a past it grows out of.
And I'm having fun doing so
...how odd.

I think I really may be picking this up, this habit, this way of life; Writing. I thought perhaps being done (for now anyway) with Echo, I would wander off to other things. But not knowing how long I have till I am forced to get "a real job", I want to create as much as I can of these worlds. It feels weird now to not be working on it. Though I fear it would seem odd to others that this is how I spend my time. You know if neighbors or acquaitances were to ask what I did today, researched the history of France would seem a ridiculous answer. A fine valid answer for a published writer, but something seeming a silly dalliance for one such as myself; one who should rather be focused on homemaking or earning money. But my husand after years of not seeming supportive, somehow suddenly is. I could tell him how I spent my day, and he isn't "wow babe that is fantastic" but he isn't "why didn't you scrub the shower?" either. He wants me to try, he wants me to do this (at least for now.) And my mom is also supportive. I don't think they think of it as my work, as I do; but they know it is what I am doing and they don't tell me not to, they don' tell me I should be doing other things instead. They understand. And for that I am grateful. It makes it easier for me to keep walking down this road, to walk as far, as long, as I can.

What exciting thing am I doing?
Just cleaned up my desk top, saving all my notes (and everything else in it/on it) to disk.
Cleaned up Nissus and saved some downloaded books to disk.
Aaahhh the joys of open space.
Changed my screen saver to swans to motivate me on my next writing project, Fountain of Swans.
I got a movie from the library yesterday for research.
Currently procrastinating exercising (sports bra is killing my ribs), and deciding what part of the big clean I will do today. Fridge probably. Best put wash in for the boy now before I forget.

editing coma

sick of it. Even spent 4 hours of Thanksgiving doing it.
Still have 108,856 words, and 211 pages.
Guess I'm not much for editing down the material.
I'm going to print it out now (second time, with edit corrections), and give it to my mom tomorrow, I call her reader number uno.
And I have no; no no no no no intention of thinking about this story again till after Christmas.
I wonder how long it will take before the pages come back to me all marked-up with highlighters and red pen? I don't know but until they do, I plan on working on other stuff. Like getting my house ready for Christmas, and working on my NaNoWriMo story, which I haven't worked on at all, and as you can see, November is pretty much over, so, so is my chance to do that challnge. Oh well, I feel challenged enough. You can indeed get so frustrated you fall into a stupor. Yes, you might think it would make you hyper, but prolonged hyper day after day after day, for me, become stupor. I thought I would try and read through it one more time (as quickly as possible) before printing it out, but I can't bear to do it one more time.
Schmaltz, death, and bad writing. Yes, time to open the windows and air myself out.

Reading The Elements of Style (found it on my shelf). Reads to me like a foreign language, or rather like some dialect that uses familiar letters and sounds, and strings them together with words I know, but then fills each sentence with words I don't know the meanings of, so I'm foever going "Huh?" "What?". I feel like an idiot. The examples are helpful, I can understand them. I just can't comprehend the sentences containing the rules. The book assumes, sadly wrongly so, that I have some sort of clue as to the definitions (and thus the words contained within them), of the terms it uses.
Goodness, I'm going to have to make flash cards and stick them around my house; see if I can't get some of this stuff into me.
No I am not smarter than a 5th grader.
pronominal possessives
indefinite pronouns
parenthetic expressions
a conjunction introducing an independent clause
a participial phrase
Clueless.
My brain just doesn't hold such things.
( I do however recall what adjectives, nouns, and verbs are)
Many of the rules once I see the examples, I realize I know and do; others I know I can't consistently apply, because I can't understand what is contained within the rules.
ugh.
Salt, I need mental salt, to help me retain information like water.

my camera and I couldn't capture it well





sunlight on grapefruit
colors, sections, forms, textures, juice contained within, sugar clinging, seeds inside; the possibility of seeds.
And I thought how wonderful to be alive, eating grapefruit on a Saturday morning. With time to watch the shadows and sunlight; with time to taste the sour, and try to adjust and balance it with sweet; over and over, tasting sour, tasting sweet, seeking harmony. Time to pull away the light pulp and wonder if paper could be made from it. Time to gather the seeds, and think of the meaning contained in each.

edit

My dream last night, had a professor in it, (good looking). He asked us to give a sentence about pain. I said something like..
"Pain crystallized, broken into shards, inset flatly across the skin, decorating, shielding; shinning." And it took him several minutes to reply with a comment, he said because it was such poor writing. The use so common. It was the ; followed by one word that he didn't like, that he felt so contrived. ( I had worried about the rest, but liked that part.) I have started to use ; to connect sentences, ok well not really, I 've started to use it to break up my run on sentences. But, I do know I've used it several times with just one word after it; I like doing this. I like the significance it gives that word, it both modifies what comes before, and stands alone. Anyway I was really upset in the dream. And today I am going through my books trying to figure out if what he said is true.
Also I was me, but the character wasn't. My being was tethered to her, watching and occasionally able to direct her. (She much younger than me, bit like Kitty from Pride and Prejudice, the year perhaps in the 70's) that very night she was eating sunflower seeds on the roof with a boy, heard her father wake up, and slide down to hide in the bushes (Why didn't she just go back into her room through the window she came out of?). Her dog, a wire hair jack russel, gave her up. She pretended to be sleeping, she pretended to be dead, but of course her father didn't fall for it. While I was watching her I was thinking, 'I've seen this one before. Yes, she ends up having an affair with that teacher.' I found this progression workable, as I had every intention of asking him my writing questions each time I/we saw him. But alas I woke up, before she could get into anymore trouble and before I could get any useful information.

I went through my books this morning with the hope of finding the answer. Nope. I still hope to glean some useful info from reading novels, but as far as my writing books go, I realize I have entered a new area, one I don't yet have a book for. My writing books are more about the emotional side, the having courage to write, and about the process of writing that first novel. But I don't have any on how to edit. I do have some about sentences structure, and spelling, et. cetera, helpful certainly, but not one on how to approach editing, how to apply it. Being me, I need a reference, a manual, a way to enter and navigate through this new territory. So it is off to the library (not open til Monday) or Barnes and Noble for me, as I doubt I shall see the professor again, and anyway I would like a more reliable source. (I mean knowing what he will be doing with that silly girl, how can I trust him?)

indecisive people shouldn't attempt to be writers.

I keep going over sentences changing this, then that, reading them back again and again, not knowing which way is better. Or are they the same? Move it to the beginning, no to the end; the middle? Omit it! Put it back.

Direct and clear, flowing and musical. Static and sharp, chaotic and rambling.

I can't even decide if he is trying to see farther in, or further in.

mentally tone deaf

zhe turkeys zhey are escaping

Or so you would see if the glare hadn't blinded the camera.
As I drove by, I saw what looked like clusters of white trash bags about the turkey farm. Odd..I thought, then they moved a bit....and I realized..Turkeys! I don't know if the company has decided to go free range all of a sudden or if this decision was made by the turkeys themselves...but I'm thinking perhaps someone tipped them off about Thanksgiving being next week.
A company truck came by and I told the driver, he said, "Okay, I'll have someone take care of it." but without any interest, then drove away. I thought about calling the farm when I got home, just to make sure they knew...but then I thought, 'What's the rush? it is cold out there, the turkeys aren't running around or anything, just having a bit of a stretch, no harm in that.'

better

I didn't work directly on improving my writing yesterday, but I did some reading.
And firstly I was annoyed that the story I was reading had some of the same imagery that mine does. No, this didn't make me feel common, it just got me riled up. I want the chance for my version to be known. And the longer I wait, the less chance my version has, for other people's will keep coming. So that was a bit of a pinch to wake me out of my stupor.

Secondly, I noticed that within the book I was reading there were some incidences of common sayings, and ways of saying things. And I realized it is not about reinventing the wheel (cliche), I don't need to stress over it to the extreme, to be harsh with myself, and unrealistic. No. I need to be calm, and go through and fix what I can see that is wrong, focus on the obvious ones, the big ones, and for now not worry about if there are others. That is what reader feedback is for. I need to keep my focus small at the moment, to work on and improve one part at a time.
.
I'll have faith
and I'll work hard.

having a wannabe writer meltdown

I've long feared that my sensibilities and skills are too immature....
and while I do feel that I can improve my skills, I'm concerned about my sensibilities. Or rather my ability to convey them. I think perhaps my perspective is simple, or at least my image/concept to words process is. It goes in meaningful, I feel it fully, but it comes out simple, standard, ordinary, in lowest common denominator form. (My crayons straight out of the box. Metaphors, ideas, words, well known, worn.)
I am not concerned so much about changing the in-waves stuff, it will take time, but I believe I will do it/can do it. The trouble is, that example is just the one that I can see. The whole thing is probably like that, in ways that I don't see or know, because it is just the way that I am (made).
I'm not striving for high art, not for something complex; I decided a long time ago, I mean to by writing to my own level, not attempting anything lofty. But still it shocked me to find my writing so immature.
I'm not giving up, just going to tumble all the way down, and taste the dirt a bit, before I get myself back up.
Because the parts that I don't write, the parts that just come to me...well I love those parts. I owe them more than just connecting them together with garbage (plastic bags and the like, not composting). And I guess I owe it to myself to ask more of myself. (To try. And try..and try...and try.)
But I know I will get, I can go, only so far, I wont be changing my core perspective, my way of seeing; I'll just be tweaking my ability to share it. I'm only going for the change of one note lower in pitch. (the sound of one note deeper).

There are so many different things one has to face when writing; (ironic for me here) complex issues arriving from the simple stringing of words on a page.
(combinations of letters vexing, hexing; a curse of self-doubt, I cast on myself again and again.)
Deconstructing a paragraph; deconstructing me.
Sitting alone in a room, asking myself questions all the time (all the time, cliche, no doubt, oops, another). And it looks like I don't move at all, I look fixed and unchanged over time, yet how I answer each and every question, changes me.
Forms me.
There is a world contained in each question. Can I do this? Is this worthwhile? Why am I spending my time this way? Do I have a worthwhile perspective? Is it meaningful; am I meaningful? How do I see the world? Is anyone interested in seeing the world through my eyes (through my character's)? Am I the same or different than? What do I believe?
It might seem sacrilegous to say so, but it reminds me of believing in God, the continual questions of faith one goes through when trying to write a novel. And in what one asks of herself, in always trying to be good, always trying to be better than she is, or believes herself to naturally be. In asking oneself what is truly possible, what is reasonable, logical to believe, and then believing in what seems extraordinary instead because somehow it is more natural.

because somehow there is a greater truth tucked into the impossible.

In waves

what to do? What to do?
In waves...that is the trouble.
The book, The First 5 Pages called in waves a cliche.
I can't find it listed elsewhere (on the web) as such.
The trouble is, I have in waves in my story, eek, about 4 times. It is about energy or sound moving in waves, from point A to point B, while the objects of origin seem outwardly unaffected. One is nausea, several times it is sound, and the sound waves even come crashing in on main character.
The repeat of it is intentional.
I am wondering how to fix this?
I'm trying to think of other words to use in place of waves.....and also wondering if then I should use the same (new) words each time to draw attention to them being a part of the same process, or if that is totally lacking in subtlety?
And of course also wondering if it need be fixed? Must I not use, in waves?
Is that definitely bad writing, or does cliche depend on context? The guests came in waves, I can see that as a cliche, and I could also easily change that; but I'm not so sure about sound; and waves of nausea does seem a cliche, but it does come and go, and I want for the wave, the surge, of energy up/out (nausea), to be echoed later by waves of energy down/in (sound).
sound waves
energy waves
Well I don't know, I'm off to go highlight it wherever I see it, and then see how it reads with whatever other words I can come up with.

Here are some others I found, which I will get rid of-
soaked through to bone
his days blow in and out
working from sun up till sun down
under a canopy of stars (ah but I love that one)
quick on his heels
the rain comes down in rivers (well I can't do sheets either. How shall my water pour down?)

One of my- in waves, is awful.
The ocean tide comes in and out in waves.
Silly, not necessary.

Dreadful, horrid, horrible, Horridible
22 times! 18 in the first half, and 4 in the last.
building in great waves, waves of frustration, wave of panic, waves of sadness, waves of sadness and fear, around me in waves washing over me, being forced upon him over in over in waves, waves of sound, in uneven waves, coming in waves, death in waves, nothing but waves of his pain, shock waves through the trembling earth, waves of sadness strike him, moving in giant waves, another wave of birds, moving in waves, drifts on waves, currents waves of thought, snow falling in waves, a wave of anger and sadness, a wave of something rides through me.
Ugh
Okay well, yeah, most of those need to be reworded.
God I had no idea all that waving about was going on. Yes, I knew it was in there, and I knew I repeated it, but I had no idea it was that bad, 22 times.
Perhaps, while some of these will need to be rewritten, for most I can just delete the waves part, and the rest will be workable as is. (?) I hope so.

Echo edit

read it all the way through, on actual paper pages.
Made lots of notations in blue ink.
Feel there are areas that are, and many areas that aren't working.
If there are plot problems someone else will have to point them out to me, because the sorts of problems that I am noticing are wordy wording, and sentence structure awkwardness, and perhaps too much info.
So I am sitting here wondering how I am going to fix those problems.
?

My son talked about abiogenesis and spontaneous generation as I drove him to school this morning.
The idea of spontaneous generation, excited me. I quickly asked him what time period people believed this in. He thought the 1400-1500's, which just happens to be the time period I intend to set my story in ( I still have to do more research to be sure. I am attempting to avoid time periods with much stife and upheaval). Before my son brought up topics of science, I hadn't thought of the possibilities that different time periods offer in the realm of beliefs. I had thought about music and art, and decided to try and weave a bit of that in, but this offers a whole other direction, a whole other way, of not just using a time as a backdrop, but in inhabiting a space, a place in time. There is much work to be done, there is much research to be done. Both daunting and exciting. But....
not today,
today I need to finish the read through of Echo, so I can make some mild corrections, and send it off for others to read, so weeks from now I can do a proper (intense) edit.

My point here is this, I love this part too, about writing, how everything one hears or sees, becomes a possibility, has a potential to lend itself to the story. Whatever I am exposed to during the period of writing it, from TV (the media), the books I read, family, things I overhear strangers saying at the grocery store, world events, the weather, whatever, all this will have some part in shaping little pieces of what I write. Two tawny mice materializing from wheat (or perhaps hay). That imagery wasn't within me yesterday. While such an idea might not end up anywhere in this story, those little mice feet will no doubt lead me on to other ideas, that will become part of this tale.

It doesn't show up well in these photos, but in actual life, I love seeing the warm light hitting the hill, surrounded by grey.


Read the rest of The First 5 Pages today, not at all a good time. But hopefully it will serve its intended purpose.

I love this part

No I haven't started writing for NaNoWriMo yet,
and my edit of Echo keeps plunging me into the cold of self doubt,
But...
but
I am being courted
by sound: the galloping of horses, the wind in the trees, the flutter of wings on water
by scents: lilacs, meadows, woods, a saddle, baking bread, the people she loves,
by sights: red cherries, leaves falling from trees, lilacs blooming, velvet slippers, white swan wings
I am being courted by a story
I walked for a short time in the park this morning and I did not walk alone.
For she walked with me.
This is a beginning.
I know enough to know plot, but have yet to try to see, and feel it all. I am not yet working, not struggling, not yet trying to figure it all out, to have her reveal her whole self to me, and make us be..anything. I am still standing outside, peering in. And as I do, she sends images, scents and sounds out all around her, all round me, trying to entice me in. I know there are sorrows, sadness within, but she doesn't show these to me now.

Part of me is trying to focus on other things, but she knows how to seduce me, her scenes, her touching points, are starting to become part of my day, she reaches my senses no matter what else I think I am doing. And we both know it is only a matter of time..till I stop trying to walk on separately, and turn to her.

I love this part

Where I look, now she begins to lend me her eyes.
Where I feel, now she begins to lend me her heart.

It is almost time to begin our journey together.

I'm upset about Michael Crichton.
What a mind. I greatly admired...

grey skies
and orange leaves

grey skies
and orange leaves

gathering materials for NaNoWriMo, will do reading research while sitting at shop getting car fixed tomorrow.

Reading now, first 5 pages, not jolly reading. I will try to think of it in a positive light though, as in hopefully this info/insight will make my work better/stronger, but, as you can see from my writing here, I don't like choosing my words, or limiting them, and this I will have to do, at least sometimes, and at least to a greater degree than I am currently or else, my "work" as I so call it, will be forever displayed in a cardboard box in my closet. (Oh, alright it will be in a pretty colored binder in my studio. But that image just doesn't have the same tone to it.)

I saw a beautiful man today

He had dark hair and dark eyes.
He was standing in line at Barnes and Nobel, I caught sight of him, and he of me, as I finished my purchase and turned to leave the store.

I am now embarrassed for my haggard and scruffy appearance. I only had an hour to get to the store, buy the books, and make it back home. So I hadn't bothered with the pleasantry of trying not to look awful.

I saw a beautiful man today.

The words float again and again into my mind.
I hardly ever see men that I think are beautiful.
Men that I am attracted to, sure. Men that I think are sexy, sure. Though both most often on TV. But this man I saw live, in actual 3 dimensional life (4 D), without make-up, great lighting, and that wonderful distance of celluloid and media that I seem to need to garner any sort of romantic, daydreaming, attachment to someone.
I am amazed that I saw a man that I found beautiful, who indeed is beautiful (at least in outward form), standing in line at our local Barnes and Nobel. I feel rather like, as I turned to walk out of the store, I suddenly noticed a white peacock, train fanned out, had been standing in line behind me. I feel a sort of awe. I try to restrain, contain the feeling, yet I feel it.

As I think of him a white peacock, a unicorn, something unusual and shinning. I fear that if he has had any thoughts of me at all from that second that our eyes met, they would be, 'I saw an ugly woman today. Suddenly I looked up and saw a warthog. Can you believe it! A warthog had been standing in line in front of me at Barnes and Nobel.'
(actually I would rather have called myself an Aye aye, but you might not have a visual of one stored away in your mental encyclopedia.)

It matters not what he saw. It is enough for me that I saw. I fear not what the trees, sunsetting sky, swans gliding across the water, or ocean tide, think of me. I appreciate the moment of glinting, of watching light reflecting off of something. Of a form or of a moment wholy beautiful.

I saw a beautiful man today.

There is no lust in the words, not thoughts of sexiness, or hotness. Not longing. The words form a thought, that just holds itself together in a perfect sphere, meaning nothing more, and nothing less.

I saw a beautiful man today.

I saw a beautiful man today.

I still have 26 pages to go of my first edit, but....I just signed up for this year's National Novel Writing Month.
I don't expcet to reach 50,000 words, because I have a lot of research to do, the young adult story takes place in France, long ago. Long ago meaning I am not yet fully decided on the time period. So I am not planning on doing the mad dash I did last year (hey but I did reach 50,000 words because of it!). So why did I sign up? I think doing so will help me focus my energy on this new project, keep me moving forward, and at a pace greater than I would do on my own.

so I better get back to finishing my edit of Echo, Fountain of Swans begins the day after tomorrow.

by the bye,

I didn't know that CPR's chest compressions do not restart the heart. Their function is to keep blood pumping through the heart, thus flowing through the body, so that oxygen can reach the brain and other organs keeping them and tissues alive, until the heart can be given the energy shock (defibrillation) that will (hopefully) restart it beating.

unpleasant research. Almost done with first edit, but held for a moment suspended over an area that it seems I need to amend. I do not want to however, as reality is interfering with how I prefer to see the scene. And if I do surrender to it, then I must go back and change some things about 5 chapters ago. The area is the death of a character, the exact details of how, and I must resolve it today, as I wish not to be held here, over this space, trying to see it more clearly, any longer. Like it is happening in slow motion, with little alterations made, before it plays before me again. The outcome always the same.

I am thinking about NaNoWriMo. The story I am working on editing, is the one I used NaNo for last year, to help me really focuses my energy and move forward through it. My goal is to be done with the first edit by the last day of October. Then give the work to some family members to read and review. So that I wont be working on this story at all during November, thus will be able to see it with fresher eyes when I do look at it again. What I am wondering is, whether I should take a break in November,
or use NaNo to help me dive right back in with another project? I wouldn't set 50,000 words for the month as my goal, because I know I have a lot of research to do for whichever of the two stories I choose to work on, which is why I thought I wouldn't do NaNo at all, but if I do it, it might help me energize my focus, and make sure I am also writing while I am doing research.
I don't know, guess I better decide soon. :)

Phoctober, I know I haven't been doing it, and I thought and said I would, but..I don't know how much longer I will be able to be home and have the time that affords me to write, so my goal is to finish the story first. And I have been working on that, which feels right to me; I can't let myself feel guilty about that. So that is why I haven't been Phoctobering.

thinking about:

Jennifer Hudson, I can't believe that about her mother and brother; and where is her nephew? (I'm still hoping it isn't actually true.) As I said a few days ago I've been listening to her song "All Dressed in Love" while I work on my writing. It will sound different today. I might not be able to listen to it today. (my thoughts and prayers go out to her.)

I saw the movie "Waitress" recently, and liked "Baby don't you cry (the pie song)" and couldn't believe it when I found out the woman, Adrienne Shelly, who wrote the movie, and was an actress in it, also the writer of that song (her little daughter appears at the end of the movie), had been killed. I listen to the song, and I try to still hear it the first way I did, but it wont stay pure, it takes on other tones, being changed by time and sadness.

J.M. Barrie, the writer of Peter Pan. I made the mistake this past week of reading the introduction to Peter Pan. I've seen "Finding Neverland" I know that the mother dies. Yet I was completely unprepared for the number of tragedies that visited this one family, thus the life of Mr. Barrie. It seems to me that only so much grief should be given out to any one group. No more than that which can fit in the palm of a hand. But this was swallowing grief, drowning, vast and heavy.

Does it make me feel lucky? Does it make me feel fragile? I don't know. I know I feel sad, and uncertain, and I don't understand, and I wish it would never be, could never be that way. I want forever. I wish we all had forever. In my own life, I don't really believe my cousin is dead. I wonder if my refusal to accept it dishonors her in some way? But it makes no sense to me. Not at all possible. It seems rather easier to remove myself one step from reality then to weave this piece of information in.

I think of Tuck Everlasting because I like the message it was trying to bring. But it is hard enough to accept the notion of having a time, and that time being over some day, when the some day is after a full long life; I find it nearly impossible to accept when the time is brief, over too soon. When someone dies at the beginning, or even the middle, of what I consider to be a turn.

I remember when I was young, and old was any age more than mine. Now I am 38, and old, I think of mostly as a state of mind, and old enough to have lived long enough for it to be time to die, I think of as being at least 100 years. And even that sounds a brief time to have walked the earth.

Why give her so much, enlighten her, brighten her, fill her dreams full, then take away a piece of her, vast, fracturing her forever? So that no matter how much light finds her, fills her, no matter how she seeks to heal and restore, even though she will surely find joy again, still she can never again be completely whole.

The Pie Song

When the world is grey and bleek
baby don't you cry
I will give you every bit of love that's in my heart
I will bake it up into a simple little pie ***

Baby don't you cry
gonna make a pie
gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
Baby don't be blue gonna make for you
gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
Gonna be a pie from heaven above
gonna be filled with strawberry love
Baby don't you cry gonna make a pie
and hold you forever in the middle of my heart
Baby here's the sun, baby here's the sky
Baby I'm your light and I'm your shelter
baby you are mine I could freeze the time keep you in my kitchen with me forever
Gonna be a pie from heaven above
gonna be filled with strawberry love
Baby don't you cry
gonna make a pie and hold you forever in the middle of my heart
ooooh, ooooh....
Gonna bake a pie from heaven above
gonna be filled with butterscotch love
Gonna bake a pie from heaven above
gonna be filled with bananacream love
Baby don't you cry gonna bake a pie
and hold yo-u forever
and hold yo-u forever
and hold you forever in the middle of my heart
****

It is raining and dark, has been all day. And I haven't done any work.
I have that lost feeling (that I don't often have) where nothing seems quite right, feels quite right, though nothing feels wrong either. Nothing calls, and nothing fills, I just am. And thus am uncertain what at the moment to do with me. It isn't a scary lost, with nervousness and sorrow; it is rather just a lacking of personal placement.
I don't think I will ever get used to the idea that people die, so I know I wont ever get used to the reality of it. And I can't hold onto time, not even one moment of it. Not even on a nothing day like today, all grey and raining. It will be gone too soon and I wont get it back.

It is weird to think about all the things that are happening to the people in the world at even given moment. Great joy, shattered sorrow, swimming in the sun, freezing in the cold, dying, being born, falling in love, getting a divorce, eating dinner, eating breakfast, falling to sleep, rising,..I feel impossibly internally and externally still. Filling a moment with stillness.

suspected prowler, lack of sleep, jury duty, headache.
writing.

playing All Dressed in Love, by Jennifer Hudson, over and over, while I write.

boring the heck out of Bob, who among other things, can't share my frustration over my inability to grasp all the differences between, commas, colons, and semi-colons. I don't want to use a comma after so, as in meaning therefore.

thinking of how, the words and sentences, spill over, sloppily, like a slobbering St. Bernard dog.

I love scent memories. I just got up to get an apple. I couldn't resist smelling its golden delicious skin. And suddenly there I was, a me of many years ago, standing in the barn on my grandfather's land, peering inside the special wooden room filled with apples. I don't often think about the apple trees, there are so many other things to remember. But these too were part of him, and therefore are also part of me.

Nope. I don't like using the comma with therefore either.

man-y-kin

Mannequin - a dummy used to display clothes in a store window.
I had to pass her every day on the boardwalk the week we were at the beach.
Bob wanted to know why I wanted a picture of her, I said, "because I never saw a mannequin that looked like she had breast implants before." ( the flash here flattens her out a bit)

Man-y-kin - a group or division of women, used like dummies to display their bodies in the world window we call media, for the pleasure of men.
I think bodies are beautiful. The naked body is not shameful. HOWEVER...I am sick and tired of women thinking they are empowering themselves by standing 90% naked in the public eye.
Who came up with that one?
I just saw the most recent Britney video, Womanizer, and can't help but wonder why every other scene has her naked in a sauna? Why I keep seeing her bra and up her legs in the other scenes? The man in the video has a suit on the whole time, except there is one flash of a male chest, which might be his. This made me think of the new Beyonce video (I have not seen all of yet, but I did see a clip of, probably while watching the Hills.) She is wearing, a bikini sized outfit, her thighs and body all oiled up, and dancing in such a way, that men being men, will say, "Oh yeah, she wants it."
The thing that I don't understand is this, these women are already established as singers, as entertainers, why can't they wear more clothes, and dance, um I don't know in a way less like, "give it to me now." ?
Maybe it does make them feel empowered, I imagine it does work well at getting men's attention. These women certainly are objects of desire. Wanted. Lusted after. Fantasized about. And they certainly are making bank.
But I wish it was more about the songs, the words, the talent. I know these women work hard. And I can't see that, I am a woman, and I am distracted. I am not thinking about what she is singing, what content it might be about, this woman's gifts, talents, whatever. All I see is her body, so that becomes what she is about, her body. And certainly she is her body, but she is also so much more.
And I can't help but wonder if women will ever (in the media) present the so much more first, rather than showing us her body, 90% naked, writhing, gyrating, and then trying to use that to get us interested in what if anything else they have to offer. And most do have a lot more than that to offer. Can't they sell albums (oops. Who you calling old? I mean CDs) and be successful in the media, and still be sexy, without being so blatantly sex?

by the bye,
While Bob will peer at the cover of Maxim while at the bookstore, he actually seems put off by these types of vidoes. I think because he like me, expects different content depending on the media outlet.

bah

sentence crafting, clearly I don't know the art of it. I am totally clueless, lacking.

I keep reading over the sentences I find in actual novels, then going back to my own.
I glean nothing.
I am not improved, in thought, or in ability to perceive, what is good, and what is bad, within that which I call my own. It all just is.
Well perhaps I find a few sentences, paragraphs that I like, and think them pretty good as they are, and I find a few really jarring clunkers, advertising their awkwardness, and I think, 'Yeah, I need to figure out how to fix those.'
But mostly the sentences seem to me to be neither, they just are.
Am I supposed to be trying to make each and every sentence good?
Giving each one specialized, magnified, attention?
I believe I am supposed to be lovingly crafting, chipping away parts, forming, paring down, then polishing all, till stuff shines.
I don't know how to do any of that.
Instead I lift my shoulders, hands open, palms up, a perpetual shrug of questioning, and nothing knowing-ness, err knowing nothingness. Ugh.
I don't know why I am to be filled with ideas, if I am also constrained within a form that lacks skills, and the ability to retain information, understand concepts, and grow.
Then again, also, I fear I am lacking drive, the call to make each part of a structure beautiful and just right.


Yep, definitely gonna need help, outside help, on the whole editing thing.
It is Sunday now, and I am up to over 107,000 words. I don't know much, but I am guite certain that when editing, part of the process is getting rid of all the unnecessary words and sentences. While some areas might need more clarification, thus adding words, still this would be balanced out by getting rid of excess in other areas, so numbers wouldn't go up. Apparently I'm not doing that.
I have been able though to get rid of some the (s). As in: the cat, the calomine lotion, the bag of manure.

fini

with a little over 105,800 words,
plus my overlay of sericulture, one for silkworms, the other silk, =about 2, 500 together (they may or may not be woven into story, they may be woven in as they are, as in on separate pages, or may be dismantled and absorbed into the whole, or may just be tossed aside. But at any rate, they are done).

So rough draft number uno is finally done.
It is however way past my bedtime, and I had an unusually tiring and unrestful weekend, so I'm not currently feeling the Joy.
But hopefully I will soon. Perhaps not tomorrow though, as my being up now will result in my being too tired tomorrow to function at a high, or a cheerful level. (6am is a dreadful to get up)
Regardless tomorrow I should be onto editing. I am quite interested in reading it now that it is all formed, roughly, but still completely. I read through as of this moment sounds like a good thing.
My bed is calling me.
Goodnight, sweet dreams.

ode to summer

I took this while riding my bike


Bob took this one, I don't do rides

http://hua.umf.maine.edu/China/shang2.html
(c) Marilyn Shea, 1996, 1999, 2002, 2007

The above link is the source of these photos, none of which are mine
I came across them in my silk worm, and silk research this morning
obviously this is embroidery

How I love those leaves, vibrant and alive they seem. I think of her quietly bent over her work, nothing extraordinary in her form or movement, yet upon a white background, with needle and colored thread, she creates beauty

Birds and flowers, again as one who oil paints, and sculpts, not necessarily well, but still I do, and as a would be/wannabe writer, I love this creation, of seeing something materialize before our eyes, come into being. Separate things coming together, elements drawn together, transformed by hands into scenes of beauty.

Why still researching? I am now, as it feels like I have always ever been, on the verge of finishing rough draft number uno. But it wasn't enough to wonder if I should add in silkworms, and metaphors to such, the dead betta wanted to be included as well (which I attempted quite awkwardly yeserday), and I got a nudge from silk yesterday that today has turned into silk saying "Hey, I can be symbolic too. Use me for metaphors." No, I don't want to. I am done. You hear me done! "oh come on, at least look into using certain aspects for chapter titles." No, no, no! Silkworms said the same thing. What are you expecting me to work both in!? I can't, and I don't need to. "I'm only expecting you to try." Yeah to waste one more day, or perhaps several more, running around with all sorts of odd bits of info, and more internet research, and then trying to overlay it over everything else I have already done. Ugh. No. no. NO! "Just try it, just today, jot all points down on paper, see if they intersect or overlap, see if they work together intrinsically. No more research at this point. Just lay out the points of story, of silk worms, and of silk production, and see if there are any echoes. "Yeah I know there are some, but there is story timeline, and silk worm timeline, and silk one, everything wont evolve at same point, same time together. "You get to discard the idea if it doesn't work. I'm not asking you to bend anything, to force it. I am asking you to look and see. And anyway you know as well as I do, that you will stress eat and do all kinds of unnecessary negative avoidance strategies in trying not to do this, better, quicker, and easier, to just surrender now. Be annoyed, set all the points out, decide what works, and then move on."
( I could explain why silk gets quotes talking to me in my head, but my own voice in my head doesn't, but...)

back to photos from the link

On the one hand, I do not believe I can approve of the world bird trade, something inherently wrong about keeping something that can fly in a cage (plus I know some are harmed, and some die along the way), but at the same time I am drawn to the imagery of it. Of rows of exotic creatures, and winged beings, in cages; attempts at wildness contained; chatter and life bursting forth. Noisy, colorful. I like aviaries, I like bird houses, and I like bird cages too.

by the bye,
I do wish the wild birds flitting about my yard would stop crashing into the windows. I am sure it is to be considered my fault (and feel appropriately guilty), but know not how to fix it. For weeks now, bang, crash, splat. Oh and birdsong of course (but not from the one currently smashing into the window).

well I am off to search for overlapping points...but first I think I will get a bite to eat

update- 6:19 pm the following day, any more researching and I think my laptop will catch fire. I admit I might look into some books I have a bit more tomorrow, but overall research done. Finding the "right" words to google made a big difference.

I shall dream tonight of silkworms spinning cocoons in figure eights,infinity,through successive lifetimes, each one brief. Held for a moment, just long enough to reach forward and form the next generation. So there are always silkworms, silk moths in the world, though each lifetime, each single moth is scarcely here (the moths only live for a couple of days to a week if left to nature's timing. And most don't leave cocoons alive if they are part of sericulture). Then I shall dream of cocoons unraveling being transformed and formed into lustrous silks. Is it a fairytale? Is it a horror story? Yes. I feel its wonder, enchantment, death, and sadness. I never realize where something has come from, where it has been, how many hands, how many lives have touched it, and worked on creating it, to bring it to this point in time. I'll never look at silk the same way again. It wont be with distaste though, it will be with reverence. It is a sacrifice, albeit one not taken up voluntarily by the silk moths, but still a sacrifice for to create something beautiful, useful and beautiful. It has given people industry, food, clothing, shelter. Does that make it worth it? Is that justifiable? I don't know. I'm not sure how I truly feel about the milking of cows and the sheering of sheep (though those don't involve death), et. cetera (I left my veg ways behind several years back, but I'm still uncomfortable with animals dying so I can eat them). But I won't eagerly step forward into a life without goods created by animals. As I try to decide how I feel (how I should feel?), for the goods created through these processes, I do know one thing for sure. From here on I will think about where things come from, and for the sacrifices made, I will feel gratitude.

had a school meeting with Cheese's teachers and guidance today, and buried Frederick Tornado (fish funeral).

Doorways

birds bathing

This time of year, the skies and grounds, and birdbaths are filled with flocks of brown, (and black) birds.
I love watching them.
I felt like a sneaky peeker the other day, as I tried to hide in the dark of the dining room and watch them bathe

They made a great amount of noise, chattering and splashing.
These photos don't show the true amount of them. It seemed like there were a hundred but they saw me and most flew away. Still others came in waves, and I stood back across the room watching.


Yes the water and fountain are a bit...mucky. About every other day I add fresh water to it. Several times I have dumped all the water out and blasted the green slimy sides with the hose on jet, trying to clean it. But it insists on being sludgy. And apparently the birds prefer it that way. The first year I had it when it was all white, and the water clear, I had scarcely a visitor. Now, they love it. It seems they picnic in it, there are bits of seeds, and feathers, and bugs, and berries. There are also bits of leaves, and flowers, and twigs. And sometimes I notice these tiny worm like creatures living in the water, which I do not know if I should work hard to eradicate or just let be. Do they help or harm the birds?

I guess it is not so much a fountain as it is a rather small odd pond.
If this was a bird spa this would be the mud bath.

Happy Phoctober 1st

I am uncertain if Moon is doing Phoctober this year, (as in photo-October) a month of photo posts each day, but as I have fallen behind in my blogging in general and have nil photo posting as of late, I think I should definitely try for it.
So here is my day one, photos from this morning.

By the bye,
doing much better today.