Monday - again!

Why is it first thing in the morning all I can think of is my breakfast? Then afterward I feel so good that the idea of 'work' is repugnant.

< Sigh >

This actually explains quite a lot, doesn't it? Maybe schedules really do help people get things done.

Grr.

Fine.

A Twitter (NOT!)

So shall pen a few lines to (hopefully) put me in the flow for finishing Adam's chapter. Not so easy as you might think, even though I did some concrete reasoning last night.

This morning, I have a persistent Bagheera on my lap, and a deadly 'Oh, who cares?' attitude, which believe me, is more fatal than a cat who won't leave the pen alone. I can work around a sweet purr-cat, but when I've got nothing in my brain and no wish to pull out what's there … things look grim indeed.

Clarity at night -- OR Later the same day

Huh. 8.30, and I'm in bed. What a wonderful way to spend your 'Friday' night. I must admit, though, it's pretty nice to lie here and realize I don't have to make myself believe something impossible anymore, that I'm done for the day. Very wearing, to every few seconds keep forcing yourself to think what you innately count as false.

That's quite an obtuse, wordy sentence, but I'll let you work it out on your own.

So I guess I need to figure out how Adam's revelations should work out. In this chapter, he's thinking about Leslie, about her selling the farm, how she brought up the subject of his dead wife Renee (so he's also thinking about her). He's comforting Emma, (who's scared at the loud thunder), which would also remind him of Renee. But he's also thinking about how many changes he's had in his life lately and he doesn't want more (i.e., Leslie selling the Martin place). Which (seems to me) would lead to his relishing time with his daughter, and how he wants to protect her, and keep their world safe. WHICH IS ADAM'S MAIN STORY GOAL, WHICH NEEDS TO BE STATED UP FRONT, WHICH IT IS. Which he doesn't get to achieve, but that's another story -- in fact, it is the story.

Leslie's main story goal is to find a home for herself (she hopes in her dream condo), but she doesn't achieve that either.

A writer's jitters

Spent a restless night. In fact I've been on tenterhooks for days, though I don't really know why.

I was writing about Adam the other day, about his feelings for his daughter Emma, and I just kept feeling more and more that something was wrong. That maybe she would have needed fed at this point in the story, or she could be put back in her crib and Adam 'take the story' downstairs, as it were. But anyway, my Inner Editor kept yelling 'Something's not right!' -- but I don't know what isn't right! All I know is I'm being yelled at, and it's got me so wound up I can't do anything. Typing in the stuff about killed me, but I did it.

And I would love to be able to clean it up and send it out for an opinion, but I am frankly scared to. I keep imagining all the other things that 'could' be said, and I don't want to hear them again either.

So I guess the only way to deal with this situation is to face it. Clean up the chapter, finish it, and send it off. Then just go on from there.

I need to face this fear.

A historian's thrill

Did some research on religious background for Scotney Castle (a new story idea I have). I had forgotten that the Avignon Papacy, the Great Schism and John Wycliffe were all at about the same time. This, with the deeply pious Henry V coming along just afterwards, is completely understandable, and even a little exciting to this Moody Bible Institute alum.

But I'm not sure what ramifications (if any) it will have for Annette (my main character).

Dull and tired

Sitting, waiting, in a parking lot again -- Wal-Mart this time. At least it's not Rural King, so WSMI isn't blaring in my ear.

Been a pretty stupid day. I'm tired and run down from going to Alton Square yesterday. Kind of strange to contemplate about that trip. I prayed so specifically that I'd be able to order that chair and be able to pick it up at the store, and it worked out exactly as I asked (except, of course, for the price!) It makes me wonder whether I could do that more often -- get precisely what I ask for -- like with writing. And you know, it might work out that I could ... so long as I actually do the work, and not just sit at my computer playing stupid games.

Or even if I work on a story instead of scribble in The Pensieve ... as I'm doing now. Sheesh! My rationalization for now is that my head hurts too much to think. (So what else is new?) I really wonder sometimes if I should find some way to disconnect those games.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow when my head doesn't hurt.

SIGH Tomorrow when I'll be all by myself. Ed's traveling to DeKalb tomorrow at noon for a 1-day 911 Training class; he'll be back Monday night.

Tech-tarded

< SIGH >

I'm working at my desk, right?  I want to hear some music,
right?  So I figure I'll download my Beatles disc onto my MP3 player
and listen to it that way, since my stupid computer speakers won't
work, right?  So I start ripping the music, and I notice Windows Media
Player is playing the first track.  "Fine.  Play away," I tell it.  "It
won't do any good."

Then (for some stupid reason), I think I'll try using my headphones and see if I can hear anything from that output.

AND -- I DO!

But, when I unhook the headphones, I still don't hear anything out of the speakers.

???

Argh!

Needing directions

"Yes, I'm lost here. Could you direct me to the Island of Misfit Toys?"

I once told my husband that Rachel's writer's group was like a collection of Misfit Toys. That Rachel, Lin, David and I don't really fit in any other groups, 'cause we don't produce much word-count output. I'm needing those guys today.

Had to post word-count totals on GYWO and the Circle, and brother, was I blown out of the water. My monthly pledge goal for GYWO is around 17K (doable at 550 words/day) -- my total is 4,681. One girl on the Circle posted a total of about 27K (doable at 880 words/day).

So, could you please tell me where my group of friends are? I really miss them.

A writing prompt exercise

Jot down your father's age at your conception. Then your mother's age. Write a brief description of the house where you were born, as you remember it or as you imagine it. Then write to one or both of your parents, or about them.

My dad was 31, my mom 32 when I was conceived around Thanksgiving. The story goes that the pains were so bad when Mom was delivering me, she almost jumped out the hospital's 4th floor window. My dad stopped her, and as far as I can tell, that's the last time he actually changed her mind about anything. She was one lady who had her own opinions and stuck to her guns, even when faced with absolute proof she was wrong. That happened a lot … and the walls of their dining room still echo from the sounds of their frequent squabbles.

~~~

I'm looking at ANY thing to get myself into writing! Lol.

Currently editing COMING HOME -- with a definite out-the-door target date of October 31st!!

I mean it this time ....

Fallout

A friend of mine posted that he hates 'April's Fool's' jokes. He got me thinking, and sometimes, you know, those practical jokes can backfire on you ....

One year, my hometown was going through a bad time. The local coal mine, where quite a lot of people worked, had been cutting production and laying people off, more and more as the months went by. The community was getting worried; scuttlebutt was that the mine was closing, and everybody was unsure just how bad things would get.

Then one day in our local paper, headlines announced that the coal mine owners had been bought out by a new concern, who planned to re-open the mine, shinking new shafts and creating thousands of new jobs!

You guessed it; the date on the paper was April 1, and when people discovered the whole thing was just a hoax -- hoo, boy, were they mad!! But when Mid-Illinois farmers get angry, they don't just blow their top; they sublimate the feeling, and find ways to make your life extremely uncomfortable.

And so, in this case, within a very few months afterward, the editor/publisher responsible for the April Fools headlines announced that, due to personal concerns, he was stepping down as head of the paper ....

I'll leave you to draw your own moral conclusions. ;)

A Slice of Life ... but Whose?

In my old house, where my parents have lived now for over 30 years, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, writing on my latest draft. Across from me, my mother, looking little and old, tries to put together a jigsaw puzzle. I know she won't be able to complete it, and it's really too difficult for her, but she refuses all help. Plus it makes the time pass quicker.

Breaking in on my concentration, my mother asks, again, "So how's your brother Rex and -- oh, what was the middle brother's name?" (I'm her only child, but I don't say that. I don't want to upset her.) She then mentions the boarders living with us (we never had boarders; she must be thinking I'm someone else), and that she distinctly remembers the house I grew up in -- "Do you still live there?"

This time I answer her. Perhaps something will get through. "No, Mom, I haven't lived here for a long time now."

"Not here - the house you grew up in."

"Mom, this is where I grew up."

Her gaze is unwavering, almost staring. "But you don't remember your other brother's name?"

I only look at her. After a bit, she turns again to her puzzle, and I go back to my work.

But I can't see the page before me.