February 27th, 2006

getting by

Those Days

I have to write about four paragraphs of "Tusk and Skin" before it's done. Naturally, they are not the last four paragraphs. They are, however, consecutive paragraphs, which makes it harder, not easier -- when I'm left with four paragraphs of connective tissue, it never takes any time at all. This is four paragraphs of climactic action. Bah, climactic action.

Tomorrow morning is my last dose of antibiotics for this sinus infection, and then we will see if I bounce back entirely when I am off the antibiotics or if I need to go see the allergist. At this point I will just be glad not to be on antibiotics any more, because they are pretty clearly kicking my butt. I am no longer having quite such bad stomach cramps as I did this morning, but it's still not the most fun day ever for being a Mris. But it could be much worse, so.

Nearly two months ago when I asked you-all what to write about when I was doing the sleep-dep EEG, somebody asked what words I like the sound of. For some reason my brain just offered "chrysanthemum" on this front. Also "lycanthropy," for similar reasons, I suppose. And "heuristic." And "boing."

Yes, I'm afraid it's one of those days.
good mris pic

Her yes is mine.

On Saturday, I read Octavia Butler's Fledgling. I didn't want a vampire novel. I read it anyway, because every other time I've said, "No, I don't want a vampire novel, but this author maybe..." it's turned out all right. And it did. I think it's my favorite of her novels. I'm not sure yet.

This afternoon, I reread "The Evening and the Morning and the Night." Someone on my friendslist said it was about the costs and benefits of a genetic disease, and I sat here making a baffled face at the computer, because it's not about that at all, it's about being a Mrissa. It is, in fact, more about being a Mrissa than anything I ever write myself will be. Every time I finish reading it, I make an incoherent little noise from way down by my diaphragm. Sometimes I cry, but every time the incoherent noise, and every time I just close my eyes and sit there with the story for awhile. Because her "yes" is my "yes," too.

When I told my friend Zed that it was one of the stories that's mine, one of the stories that speaks best for my heart in all the world, he said, "Ah," and looked at me hard, and then said, "Ah," again, and Zed is a smart man, and I knew that he understood a good deal more about me than he had five minutes earlier. And now I'm telling you, and maybe I shouldn't, because you are generally smart people as well, and because this is not filtered. But I think that if you know that that is one of my stories and Bridge to Terebithia is another, you know a good deal more about me than Scandosotan girls should ought to tell.

Fledgling was like "The Evening and the Morning and the Night" -- not so much mine, but the brighter side of a similar story, a bit. It was a vampire novel, after all; it was bound to be brighter than a science fiction short story, wasn't it? And I think maybe it helps me go on telling more than Scandosotan girls should ought to tell, just like "The Evening and the Morning and the Night" did, just like Bridge to Terebithia did when I was small and curled on the floor of my dad's car. It reminds me of how my bones align, with a little click. It reminds me of where my yes goes, and where it comes from.

And once you've said that yes, the rest is not obvious, not even easy. But it's there.