August 21st, 2006


Moose Girl Dream Dance, Hurrah!

One thing last year's Year Of Sick seems to have given me is the ability to nap. I could never really nap before unless I was sick. Now I can if I need it. For example, the alarm went off at 4:45 this morning so we could get markgritter to the airport. I got up (@#%&$%#$) and took him to the airport and read lj and went and got breakfast with timprov when Perkins opened. (And let me state for the record that "when Perkins opened" is not a phrase that should have any meaning, because what good is Perkins if they don't stay open all night? It's not like you go there for the food. Imagine the horror that would have been my college years if we'd had to spend our 2:00 a.m. Perkins runs at Happy Chef instead. Even if we would have pressed the button.) And then I hung out with T. until he went to bed, and then I worked a little bit on easy revision stuff, and then I read a bit, and finally I went back to bed! And slept! And now I feel better! And not so much like someone dumped toxic waste in my shoulders! And more capable of abusing the exclamation point!

In my nap-dreams, dichroic was starting to write a book with elk in, so I was telling her what it's like to write books with elk in. (The answer, in case you're wondering: very hard. The books I've written with elk in are much harder than the ones that left the elk out. My advice from this experience: skip the elk whenever possible.) (On the other hand, it was nice to have someone with whom I could be "The Moose Girls.") Also in my nap-dreams, papersky was telling me that she'd seen my books last time she'd been in China, she just hadn't picked up copies because she didn't know me at the time and also she doesn't read Chinese. I started trying to argue with her that I don't have any books* out in English, much less Chinese, but she was able to describe details of the plots as summarized for her by her Chinese friends, so I had to conclude that my books were indeed out in Chinese. Then I got a check from my Chinese publisher, and dichroic and I did a Moose Girl Dance over to the bank to cash it, with papersky walking alongside us holding the dog's leash and shouting, "Hurrah!" at appropriate intervals. (What is a Moose Girl Dance like? Very stompy. Somewhat noisy. Upsetting to the dog. But the dog liked papersky and would behave for her, so that worked out all right.)

This is why Heathah's husband tells me not to tell people my dreams, but in truth I'd rather have my brain than someone else's.

And I need to remember that when I get back to non-trivial revision bits, but first I need lunch.

Oh, and I know which story I'm writing longhand in my new paper journal now! "Carter Hall Judges the Lines." It's the one for you, wilfulcait. It will be fun. There is peewee hockey, and there are Greek goddesses, and I'm excited to be writing it. And it's good to be excited about what you're writing at least some of the time.

*Edited to add: I should note, before markgritter reads it and starts the old argument up again, that he would have me say I don't have any novels out in English. Because I do have books out. Every time we do this, I argue that work-for-hire doesn't count, and every time he says it's a book and I wrote it and they put my name on it and published it and gave me money, not vice versa, and therefore it counts. Take whichever side you please.
good mris pic

Cabana threats

Last week I said to ksumnersmith in e-mail something I say a lot: it's not like I'm going to stop writing novels and short stories if I never get them published, so I might as well get on with it regardless of where there's progress on that front. If anywhere.

And it's true. It's not like I've been writing all these years for the fortune and glory it's been bringing me, so on any given day, not getting fortune and glory out of it should not actually be anything like a problem.

Still, I think I'm going to rewrite Sampo to be a 1,000 word short story: first the prologue, which I like, and then, "Chapter One. They all died in flaming wreckage, cliffs being in short supply in that part of Finland. The End." Maybe I will add an epilogue in which Orvokki is discovered not to have died after all and runs off to live in Jamaica with many comely cabana boys and girls.

Probably I won't do this. Probably I will just not let myself read tomorrow until I've finished the stupid mean sex scene in Chapter One or maybe Chapter Three. Still. I hold out the threat of the flames and cabana beings, just in case.

In other news, we are expecting three interesting packages this week, and we got three packages in the mail today. The two were not overlapping sets. One was some shirts I found online on sale, and they are the colors they were supposed to be (purple, brown, and blue-and-blue striped), and they fit. One was the last of my birthday gift certificate stuff, which is interesting (at least it had better be, or I'm going after you, ccfinlay) but not the previously specified interesting stuff. And one was a dress that -- surprise! -- didn't fit. I'm not even going to rant about the way in which it did not fit, because anyone who's been reading this for even a little bit already knows. But I wasn't even annoyed that it didn't fit, because the catalog described it as "moss green," and it Well. ozarque talks about conversing with other people and how you can try to think of what their statements might be true of, and I thought of that with this moss green dress. It is sort of the color of moss, if the tree that was shading the moss has died and fallen over and the moss is burnt to a crisp and then trampled by hikers or lumberjacks. (This is the same line of thought that got me to the "summer breeze blowing through a pear orchard in which there lies a rotting wombat corpse" for the "Orchard Breeze" scented bathroom-cleaning product.)

Which is really too bad, because if they'd made that dress in the color moss actually is, and if they'd made it to fit my actual body, I would have been a very happy kid. And if a frog had wings, as my grandpa often says.