Stalking the Wild Story

Beating 2009 (and a recalcitrant novel) into submission

2009-12-31T18:01:51Z

The end of another year, and my mother said, "So who's having the baby for next Christmas?"

Not me! Or, for that matter, any of my offspring. "Laura's kids have been married longer. Try her."

Ang said, "Not me. This one," and said child looks up with his charming wrinkled-nose wide grin, "has acid reflux and doesn't sleep."

Progress

2009-12-30T00:59:25Z

A miracle! For some reason, I am able to connect to Mom's wireless and communicate to the outside world.

Word count since Sunday night: 3875
Word count today: 1075, so far.
Scene countdown: 4 scenes left, unless another one sneaks in, just like that other one did.
Overall feeling toward WIP: You SUCK. I will be hammering the nails into your coffin as soon as I write The End.

Now, I get to go play with the baby some more. Yay!

Another year, another June, another sunny honeymoon, another season, another reason

2009-12-28T16:40:24Z

for making....

Riiiiiiiiiiiight. Replace whoopie with novel.

After a week away, during which--amazingly!--nothing broke, nothing broke anything else, nothing attempted to eat my body parts, and--not so amazingly!--no words wrote themselves, I am back on the wagon.

Where are the damn warning labels?!

2009-12-21T16:15:13Z

So, in the chaos of the holly jolly season, I managed to have my own mini-emergency which involved me screaming for help.

Literally.

And due solely to a rabid can of hair spray. I had managed to close the lid, entrapping a significant segment of the fleshy pad of my ring finger.

Now what you must know about this particularly vicious cap and can is that the two are not easily parted. I fight them regularly. So my mental state as I pinched that fingertip pad was -- mostly! -- pain!pain!Pain!OMGDOSOMETHING!

And then the realization kicked in, albeit somewhat delayed, that I would never be able to get the damn cap off without help.

Let the screaming begin.

Imagine you are a film maker. The camera is pointed at the landing of a curved staircase, and a well-dressed, but demented woman bursts onto that landing, screaming.

Universal Christmas truths only known to kindergartners.

2009-12-19T16:56:15Z

"Santa has slaves, Mrs. Sisolak--I've seen 'em." (That word--it doesn't mean what you think. Try sleigh. Or elves. Pick one.)

The baking sheet vs. the window battle redux, this time with details.

2009-12-14T15:06:54Z

One baking sheet drying itself in the drainer and minding its own business was knocked askew by a clumsy kitchen interloper, namely the Spousling. There's a good foot of space of no man's land between drainer and window, but the baking sheet crossed it in a single dive and dealt the window base a good sharp blow. Despite the horrific wound, the window sent it tumbling on its little flat ass, thus ending the skirmish.

More cooking utensils were involved in the fray, but were sadly confused, attacking each other and the floor.

For which I am grateful.

(Note to self: Write more kitchen disasters as battle scenes. If nothing else it makes me laugh. ;)

The recipe edition, part two, with honey-nut shortbread bars.

2009-12-13T19:36:58Z

For the record, baking sheets do not mix well with glass windows. Just in case you were wondering. Also, the baking sheet won.

Question!

2009-12-13T15:21:40Z

Wordpress or Blogger?

Please tell me why.

Saturday morning wake-up

2009-12-12T19:05:31Z

Having been smacked in the face with the border-crossing trials of Dr. Peter Watt, I'm sitting here horrified. We, as a nation, have finally sunk to the bottom. Not that we hadn't visited there regularly in the past, but it seems as though this is our new level of incompetence mingled with our own peculiar brand of terrorism.

But it's all of a piece--border guards (one hundred miles inland of the actual border, srsly?), Blackwater thugs as our hired mercenaries, a fear of the other so great that we've extended it to foreign accents and those that carry evidence of a different nationality via passport--although they look and sound just like us.

And the thing that horrifies me the most is that this is just one example--and it happened to an individual who is white, educated, and able to spread the word. What about others--darker-skinned, accented, unfamiliar with our customs--who have had similar altercations that have never hit the media or blogosphere to this extent?

Yay! (I remembered! This old business kind of sucks.)

2009-12-07T15:08:03Z

Happy Birthday, stillnotbored!

The recipe edition, as requested

2009-12-06T16:15:17Z

No writing yesterday--it was all taken up with party and concert readiness. Our run-through at church (after two funerals) turned into setup, and then we had to stop for the baptism in the middle of it all. Still we managed to get all the mics run, all the cords laying neatly, and then practiced in a mostly empty church. Two and a half hours later we were done.

Then I ran back home, threw things all around in a frenzy of last-minute ohmygod, no one can come into this house when it still looks like this and...

Lost my music. Well, not quite all of it. I did have the first page of one song, page eleven of another, but nothing of the third. The universe threw me a bone, essentially.

Fill the house with Christmas cookies, fa la la la la, la la la la.

2009-12-05T17:43:14Z

Color me accomplished this morning--four dozen snowball cookies done and a pumpkin cobbler in the oven. Last night I whipped out a batch of peanut brittle (I have another batch to make at some point) and the night before was the night of peanut butter-nutella brownies, which are my personal crack for the season. Still to come, gingerbread biscotti, shortbread with a nut and honey topping, and the truffles.

Now I just have to make sure I have enough people to feed them all to, because I'm not eating all this alone. No sirree.

Although I could. Cross my heart.

The hollowday season strikes

2009-12-02T15:15:20Z

Another 2000 words and no resolution. Well, I'm making progress of a sort. One half of the story is on the right path and I have a sense of what it's going to take to get it to the end. However, that means the remaining 50% is stuck in worthless detail splendor as I thrash through it searching for the right spot. I'm getting there. I have to have a third party show up, so hell can break loose. I just hope he's that anal a character and pissed off enough to break through walls in order to do it.

Time will tell. Lalalalalalala.

In which the devil enters, dragging her WIP behind her.

2009-11-29T15:51:14Z

In the future--by which I mean, until December 31^st, my deadline--this week shall be referred to as the lost week. Nothing moved forward on the novel and now I am down to thirty-three days to finish the sucker.

And no illness to hold up as my personal excuse. Pardon me while I freak.

At this point, I have no good sense how many words I need to accomplish to wrap this thing up. Less than 20K, I think, but I've been wrong before.

For the record, I just did the division: 20K in thirty-three days equals 666 words per day. Let's look at that number again--666.

When life gives you dogs, go back to bed.

2009-11-28T15:54:40Z

Still not 100%, although I'm better. Food now smells good, but the reality of eating leaves a lot to be desired. Will peck again today and hope for the best.

The trip to Mom's, the feasting went off well, although I was not pleased with the dressing at all. No one else seemed to notice, and I believe their tastebuds have turned. It was just not right. Now some of that was due to the lack of sourdough french bread and the substitution of loaves of regular french bread. Some of that was due to my sister's capitulation in the small matter of bell pepper use, which we have never done in the past, so if, as my mother claims, my grandmother used it at some point,

Plague-bitten

2009-11-25T16:07:47Z

I have the plague.

Okay, some plague. And, as plagues go, it's a mild case. No boils, no parts blackening and dropping off. However, that still means I spent a good thirty-plus hours in bed sleeping and am now able to remain in an upright position for six or seven hours at a time before the meat puppet demands a prone position again.

I ate a real breakfast this morning (an egg, half a bagel, and a cup of coffee) and I don't believe I'll need to eat anything else for the next day.

How sick was I? This is my first cup of coffee in two days, and I finished it, but barely, and I won't be having another. Ick, coffee. (I know, I know. I'm as horrified as you.)

Of dead rats and sekrits that must be shared

2009-11-22T16:07:39Z

It was a four-dog night, and the beasts were restless.

Three of them were in bed with us. For a few hours, and then we were rescued by the Eldest Child. I have no idea where they actually slept, but presumably it was together, and I awoke to the lovely morning medley of three noses ramming the bedroom door simultaneously.

I fed them, and they are now sleeping with the Spousling. I am alone.

With shreds of carpet.

P.L.A.N.N.I.N.G. (It's not a dirty word. Really.)

2009-11-21T18:27:36Z

Word count failure.

Parent conferences and the week from hell contributed, because I only have so much energy. Last night I slept eleven hours straight, and the Slug (who is home! Yay!) woke me up for breakfast (she cooks! Yay! She eats eggs! 0.0) and saved me from having to sing a solo in the weirdest venue ever--an elevator, the size of a room. With a piano. And my choice of a pink or yellow plastic spoon to use as a mic.

Beating my head against the keyboard

2009-11-18T15:10:27Z

I'm frustrated.

The trouble with not visualing enough beforehand is that I visualize too much now as I write. In excruciating detail. Every step. Every little movement. And I'm yanking recalcitrant description out by the roots.

I thought I was going to die of word ripping last night--those writing minutes were the longest of my life.

P.R.O.G.R.E.S.S. (of some sort, and don't quote me. The novel will eat me if it suspects.)

2009-11-15T15:41:32Z

So one day as you're writing another bunch of words to the meandering thing you laughingly call the novel, you realize that perhaps--just perhaps!--a little outlining would be good.

Okay, not an outline, but a running record of where you think you need to go to wrap ~~the damn thin~~ it up.

Okay, not a running record, but half-written notes on three pieces of 3x3" paper, both sides. (Because writing by hand? Anathema. God gave us fingers to type. You are allowed to print for lists and that's the extent of it. Explains the 3x3" paper, doesn't it?)

And in that half-assed process, you discover that one POV character is in a place he cannot physically be in order to do what he must do.

Now if the nose would only cooperate....

2009-11-14T16:45:21Z

Another day, another day of good intentions just waiting to be blown.

No writing due to choir practice on Thursday--two choirs, double the fun. No writing last night either. I arrived home in an exhausted heap at 5P, completely worthless. I finally ate dinner and vanished into my pillow.

But today! A gleaming bright morning full of promises!

The list begins with cleaning, but I'm slipping yesterday's novel words into the forefront. (So I must tear myself away from the short that is coming along quite nicely, mind you, and face the monster that will not get to the damn ending. I may have to outline (very roughly) where each POV character must go in order to tie this ever-expanding growth into order--cordoning three rambunctious vines into espalier.)

How to know if you are married to a scientist:

2009-11-12T02:12:52Z

When told the microwave has self-immolated, or would have, but you opened the door before it burst into flames--

--he tests your hypothesis.

With the end result being, d'oh, smoke and flames.

Read my mind. Please.

2009-11-11T17:56:20Z

Because I have a day off--and unplanned for, because day off! Woo! Sleep in!--I am up early. The dogs did not get the memo about sleeping in, dagnabit.

So I used a random generator to select an abandoned short story to work on. (Where random equals the piece of paper I grabbed to write the information I needed to send the Slug, which turned out to be the image I used for Beryl's story. Clearly random.)

I open the document, am impressed by the quality of writing and how much I love the story, and then slam into the spot where I quit writing.

Plot: a fancy word for kicking my butt

2009-11-08T15:48:41Z

I struggle with my writing, and my nemesis is plot. You can capitalize that word, and make it appear absolutely evil: P.L.O.T.

For me, it is.

I've moved from a model of rising action, climax, falling action, denoument to shit happens. Yes, I freely admit I couldn't get my head around nailing that rising action thing until after the story was written. And sometimes not even then.

The sound of little dogs, part two

2009-11-07T21:33:55Z

Silence, broken by screaming.

Mine.

In the match, Baxter vs. The Couch, The Couch not only lost its guts in the battle, but its small tear on the semi-attached back cushion has been ravaged. Polyester stuffing litters the floor, along with the basket of fake blooms that he abandoned in order to attack an innocent sofa that was Not Bothering Him At All.

I shall be face down on my pillow for the foreseeable future. Send chocolate.