It's August now.  After the coldest summer in the last thirty years, we are now having hot, perfect for bathing weather, now that the kids are back in school.  So cruel.  OTOH, Middlekid is taking a life-saving course until late September, so I'm glad to know she won't be turning blue.

I did aim to post once per month, minimum.  I skipped July.  Did anybody notice?  I hope not.  I hope you were all taking advantage of your breaks and weathers, whatever your hemisphere.  I look forward to catching up on your blogs.

On the writing front, things are going surprisingly well.  I thought it would be harder to get into the rhythm again after taking the whole summer off, but there I was in the shed, scribbling away, brimming with new tortures for my characters.

On the publication front:  The Fucking Fairy Story (some of you may even know what I'm talking about) has been shortlisted somewhere for almost a year.  Beads of sweat, bloglodytes, beads of sweat!
And- here's where it gets a bit weird: I've had a short, flashy tidbit accepted somewhere else.  Now, this somewhere else is new, but I liked the look of their e-zine, and I liked the name, so I sent them something- no money, but so what?  They had technical difficulties, there were delays, etc., so I queried and they wrote back that they wanted it, yes.  Time slithers on, and what do I read on their blog, but that the pdf issue has gone out to all subscribers nearly a week ago.  I just kind of assumed since I was in the magazine, they would send me a copy or a magic link or something and I wouldn't have to beg for one.  It's mailing list only!  It's not even available on their web-site!  I wanna see!  I wanna see!  And once I've seen that I'm really in it, I'll post a link over their where those sorts of links are so you bloglodytes can see too.  Still, anybody else think this is odd?

Hope you're all writing furiously and happily.  It's nice to be back!

Kapwing!

I'm getting better at handling rejections- some still hurt more than others, but for the most part they are all a learning experience.  At some point I was vaguely thinking there must be a magic number of times you can submit something before it becomes impossible ignore the fact that it's crap, even if you still can't see it.  I never really got around to deciding what this number is, or if it even exists; I retired many things myself, especially in my first year or so of submitting because my learning curve was steep.  (You know what I mean, perhaps?  That "thank BOB nobody ever accepted this!" story?)

The ones I stuck with have either been accepted somewhere (yay!) or had enough positive comments that I knew they were worth subbing.  Except for this one story.  It has been held rather long in some places, read by more than one reader in some places, but, in the end, always returned without comment.

And I've submitted it more than any other story.  Hmmmm.... What's a writer to do?  Perhaps it's time for a cooling off- I'll shelve it for a half year or so and then look if it's really any good.

So what about you, fellow bloglodytes?  You ever have story you really thought was good that no one wanted to touch?

Art & Fear

I flatter myself I'm not wholly chicken. I do think it takes a certain amount of bravery to be an artist of any sort. You have to be willing to expose yourself in all kinds of ways. I write things, sometimes, thinking oh, no. I shouldn't write that- people will think this character is me and that I'm a weirdo (not saying I ain't, but still, who wants that for their grand epitaph?). Or worrying that a piece of writing makes me look immature or conceited or obsessed. Or just exposes me as a crappy writer...

I look into Bayles and Orland's Art & Fear from time to time, when I forget what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. At the end of the day (read: at the end of my life) I can't guarantee that anything I will have written will be meaningful to anyone, so I might as well make sure it's meaningful to me. I'm making use of the vacuum, I guess. Usually, I accuse the vacuum of being guilty of giving me so much space that I lose the plot, quite literally. The upside is that I have enough space to decide, firmly, if I'm willing to stand behind a piece long before anybody else has seen it. Happy writing, Bloglodytes. Keep pecking away at those keyboards.

April, April, macht was ich will.

Hello, fellow bloglodytes. I've been a bad blogger, I know. Sometimes I have the impression there is an inverse correlation between the amount that I write and the amount that I blog. Man With Beard has been away a lot recently, but the good news is, I've written about 35,000 words in the past three weeks. The bad news is, somebody has to type it in now.
Any volunteers? I'll e-mail it to you and...
Oh.
Wait.
Nevermind.





(ps: The proverb is actually 'April, April, macht was er will.' Or, April, April, does what it wants. What I wrote says 'April, April, does what I want.' Which has probably just jinxed me.)

Shiny Lights in the Dim

Peppercorn on the pelmet, ready to laser all intruders (who don't bring kitty snacks.)  

Be it the sun or the cat, I'm all in favour of lights in the darkness.

Spring has arrived, and the purple crocuses and other garden inhabitants are popping up, which makes me very happy.  Spring is usually a prolific time for me, so I'm trying to get busy.  I'm plowing on with my novel again.  I begin to wonder if my characters are all half-lizard; they don't seem to want to get going.  I poke them with pointy sticks and they lie there like so much road-kill.  I have come to the conclusion that I am poking them with the wrong stick.  I need a bigger one.  Or one made of marshmallow.  Or a stick shaped like a tank.  I don't know.  I'll try anything once, though.

I have an obscene number of books on writing, which I read and re-read bits of, off and on.  I honestly can't tell if any of it is sinking in or not.  I would love to believe that my subconscious is making use if it all without telling me, but who knows?  Writing down words and shredding them afterwards seems to be the most effective learning method for me, so I'm off.

After this word:   I hate to bring this up, almost.  I know I'm very late to the game, either pro or con, but I'm just reading Twilight (yes, that Twilight) and I'm sort of in shock.

Not Dead, Just Hibernating

I'm running a little behind. And the photographs are in exactly the wrong order; sorry about that. They are mostly self-explanatory, at least.
From bottom:
1) Mandarinli ('Mandy') in the Weihnachtsbaum
2) Mandy in the tree, attacking a chocolate mouse
3) Peppercorn, trying to blend in, failing to blend in
4) Offspring, making annual Snow Goon
5) View from office window
6) Peppercorn, fishing.

Now! This is a writing blog, right?
So.
I have stopped submitting anything temporarily. I am a strange sort of mental lummox, and can't seem to remember that the important thing is the writing bit and not the getting published bit, so I am not submitting before summer, just writing. Writing writing writing. At the moment I am only writing crap, but at least I am writing. I can't seem to remember how, can't seem to open that vein at the moment, and can't tell if I'm trying too hard or not trying hard enough. This leads to desperately boring activities such as writing a list of the items on my desk. I don't dare write about any of the characters in any of my half finished stories, because they are all against me anyway and won't cooperate.
My mind even goes blank when faced with EE's engaging cartoonery. Of course, it's always possible that Evil has installed a mind-suck virus to dupe the minions he lures onto that page- I wouldn't put it past him, but I'm blaming the whole thing on

WINTER

which I hate.
The mere fact that setting all my manuscripts on fire would produce heat is an almost unbearable temptation.

State of the Nation

So here's the poop:

I've been over what has become known as "The Fucking Fairy Story" so many times it literally giveth me a headache. I wonder if someone has written a paper on this phenomenon, let's call it the "Bruised Synapse Phenomenon." Like someone hitting the same key on the piano over and over and over.... Don't get me wrong, I still love the story, but after six rejections, I've tweaked and revised it soooooooo often, it's gone numb. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, bloglodytes? I mean, I try to have a read-through and I hear Terry Jones's voice screaming "Not this record! Not this record!"

What? I'm making even less sense than usual today? Well. Rejection makes me a bit loopy. Especially meanypants ones where the editor is foul and condescending because I was ignorant enough not to know that etiquette dictates that I wait double the stated response time to query. Is this really true? I'll admit, I'm still relatively new to this game, so I'd truly love to hear from you all. Anyway, their estimated RT was 60 days, Duotrope had them averaging 42, and it had been 90. Was I really supposed to wait 120 days?

The fun part is that when it came to actual feedback (and I'm smart enough not to look it in the mouth, even if it comes in a cranky package) her complaints were almost all limited to mechanics- which I admit may have been a bit sloppy- standard typing in the US calls for two spaces after a period, over here it's one, so I'm horribly inconsistent. Also, she complained about my not-standard-American spelling of a word. I was grateful for this, because when I looked it up, I discovered that it indeed was standard American spelling, but my character is Irish and they tend to follow British spelling rules, so even though her snark was unjustified, she did me a favour. Or favor. She also complained about a boggy beginning, which I totally agreed with. I had added a rather explanatory paragraph to satisfy someone else who didn't know anything about fairies, or mounds, or Ireland, but I never liked it. So, at the end of the day, it was valuable feedback.

Actually, The whole thing wouldn't have left such a bad taste in my mouth if it weren't for her famous and well-published tendency to blacklist anyone who has the audacity to make simultaneous submissions in her court.

On a completely different note:
They're tearing up the street in front of my lovely garden shed writing space! *pout*
What an awful racket! Nevermind. I'm going to try and finish the story I was working on about the strange little boy, before the Koala gets me.

Happy Writing.

Proactive! (No, I don't mean that yogurt that makes sure you poop regularly.)

Maybe it's the kids being home, or the pollen, or fill in the blank, but in any case, I've haven't written more than 1000 words in the last two weeks.  The clouds of volcanic ash have ruined my plans to slither off undetected to the Faroe Islands.  Since they were purely fantasy anyway (my plans, not the clouds of volcanic ash) this is perhaps all for the best.  So what to do?  I just don't seem to be getting any work done at my desk, and renting a room close-bye hasn't worked out.  That leaves- yes:

The Garden Shed.

The mess.

The new space!

Prima is still off today, but Thirdling and Middlekid are back to school, so I tried out my new space.  No phone, no computer, nothing.  (Also no heat, so this is likely to be a summer thing)  For the most part, I'm pleased.  There were some minor hitches today - the cat thinks trotting around on the roof while I'm inside trying to concentrate is fun, and they decided to clean out the drainage sewer in the street right next to it, which made so much noise it literally rattled the shed, but these are small things.  And I even wrote a couple of pages!  So, we'll see what comes of it.

Take that, all you evil rejections! 

Inside the Rainbow

Thirdling goes in for the kill :)

Makes me want to go make more, really. At the moment it's more immediately rewarding than writing. Delayed gratification isn't good for people with my attention span. Maybe I should just eat the monitor.

I suck so bad at writing lately that today I resorted to making a list of 101 things that there are roughly 101 of. Or not. Or maybe I just wish. Or things I wish there weren't. Don't read this list. Go write. You're wasting your time, I'm telling you, because I don't even know what some of these things mean.

1. 101 years of solitude (how long it would take me to write a novel)

2. 101 donuts

3. 101 kids (yours? mine? no clue why I wrote this.)

4. 101 dominoes

5. 101 oak trees in a circle. They are all 101 years old.

6. 101 gusts of wind to knock down the neighbour's annoying (i.e., sunblocking) tree. The gusts are all 101 kmh.

7. 101 bras tried on to find one that fits

8. 101 children dying of cancer today

9. 101 layers of dirt over a fossilized dinosaur egg.

10. 101 pussywillow buds on the tree outside

11. 101 rejections

12. 101 hairs to stop up the bathtub drain

13. 101 UFO sightings

14. 101 kilograms of cocaine intercepted at the border

15. 101 thorns on the rose cane in front of my office window

16. 101 orgasms (in how long? that's the question)

17. 101 cups of tea in a month

18. 101 franks to buy Prima a party dress for the school ball

19. 101 lines of poetry

20. 101 days waiting for my rejection

21. 101 raisons

22. 101 test taken my final year of college (really? who counted? who cares? I write strange things.)

23. 101 men who came and went that I would have liked to talk to but was too shy when I traveled Europe 20 years ago.

24. 101 drawings stacked in my cupboard

25. 101 rocks brought up from the river

26. 101 cookies given away at christmas

27. 101 heartbeats per minute in a newborn

28. 101 missed heartbeats when my kids scare me to death

29. 101 blank notebooks, because I am mentally ill and can't stop buying them.

30. 101 teacups, see #29

31. 101 mugs, see #29

32. 101 cm of snow would be 101 too many

33. 101 degrees F would be just right, absolutely, mindbogglingly perfect, if it were just about to rain. Good. Now, keep it like that.

34. 101 links of chain, soldered into place to make a sculpture

35. 101 steps to get to M's house

36. 101 days pregnant with my boy, give or take. give.

37. 101 years to get over it

38. "101 ways to start a fight, by some Irish gentleman whose name eludes me."

39. 101 pages of nonsense written for every publishable page.

40. 101 years old by the time I die, at least. I hope.

41. 101 times I bursh my teeth on Sundays in a year. Roughly.

42. 101 times I check Duotrope everday.

43. 101 visits to a physiotherapist is what it would take to straighten my kinked neck out, at least.

44. 101 days of snow. that's how it feels.

45. 101 ignored prayers

46. 101 socks to sort

47. 101 bills paid this year

48. 101 braids on my sister-in-law's head

49. 101 annoying writing prompts (and this isn't even one of them. perhaps I should give them a try...)

50. 101 recipes for cake

51. 101 sighs, I'm only half way through

52. 101 pounds to make a supermodel

53. 101 hours worth of gardening that needs to be done

54. 101 chocolates in a big tin

55. 101 guests at the last party I didn't want to go to. zzzzzzzzzz.......

56. 101 slugs and snails in the garden. (should I say slugcicles...)

57. 101 times a year we have pizza. feels like.

58. 101 lies I tell.

59. 101 times I'd like to hit her.

60. 101 sore places on my heart when we had to leave ireland.

61. 101 reasons to go back

62. 101 reasons why I can't

63. 101 minutes I lie awake in the night, on average.

64. 101 blogs I wish I could read every day

65. 101 cars Jay Leno has

66. 101 things in the attic I should throw away

67. 101 m&ms on Thirdling's birthday cake

68. 101 people on this earth, born at the same instant I was

69. 101 pairs of shoes in this house, for five pairs of feet. pffff...

70. 101 grams in a bar of Bärnerschoggi

71. 101 windows inside my head

72. 101 books on writing I own

73. 101 post-its, stuck to my desk

74. 101 desires

75. 101 more seconds until I need to pee

76. 101 homework assignments the kids do in a month

77. 101 times I kiss manwithbeard on the cheek in a month

78. 101 seconds to think up each entry. this is getting harder

79. 101 ladies in waiting for the queen

80. 101 grains of rice in my bowl

81. 101 doubts as to whether or not I can come up with another twenty of these.

82. 101 books I should read but haven't

83. 101 things more interesting than how a computer works. (ok, 1,000,001)

84. 101 different spoons. I like spoons.

85. 101 ml of ink wasted on this

86. 101 tiles on the bathroom floor

87. 101 responses pending on Duotrope for one of the magazines to which I subbed. One of them is mine.

88. 101 reasons why cats are better than people.

89. 101 reasons why people are better than cats.

90. 101 reasons why I should go to sleep right now.

91. 101 places I'd rather be than here, all of them warm.

92. 101 bones

93. 101 bad plot ideas

94. 101 favourite songs

95. 101 colors in my paint box

96. 101 days till summer

97. 101 marbles in Thirdling's Mürmelibahn

99. 101 things out of place in my office

100. 101 trips to the community building over the years to take kids to playgroup

101. 101 smiles, because I'm done.

Boogers.

Ok. Well, I managed to stay off Koala's smack-down list last month, but this month I have kids home for two weeks holidays (what kind of sadistic country gives you two weeks of holiday in February?) and someone sub-let my head to a family of phlegm when I wasn't minding it. They keep me up all night yelling "snotters' rights! snotters' rights!" I want to write but I can't seem to concentrate, so I've read a lot of blogs this week and also some books. I've had loads of inspirations and it's sooooooo frustrating not to have the energy to follow through.
Duotrope is also killing me. This is of course, purely my own fault. I love Duotrope and owe to it every dab of organisation my submissions have ever seen. But it's just too tempting to check and re-check all the stats- has anyone responded to any submissions since I last checked? Have they responded to submissions more recent than mine? Does that mean they like mine? Or that they are passing it around for a laugh? Where's Lucy van Pelt when I need her? I'm doing my head in. (Hey, maybe I should torture myself some more! It might annoy the Phlegm Family.

I'm tempted to write a poem about this, but I can't think of anything that rhymes with 'boogers'.

Scrivener, Anyone?

I've hesitated to make this post. It's pointless, boring (well, maybe not so boring) but in any case, it might even violate the rules of Blogsphere because I'm asking, not telling. What am I asking? First, the boring stuff: 1) I am computorially illiterate 2) I don't have a MAC 3) My excellent other half unscrews all my computercide attempts (actually, it's involuntary computerslaughter, really, as I don't do it intentionally) and he doesn't know his way around a MAC. What I want to know is, is Scrivener really that good? Is it worth overcoming all these obstacles? I know it won't write for me, I don't expect it too. But if any one out there remembers this post, you'll know why I'm asking.

So how bout it, Bloglodytes? Who uses Scrivener? Who likes it? Who hates it? Discombobulated minds wanna know...

Blogging in the Rain

Well, we had a lovely covering of snow for a few days- not as common as it's rumoured to be in the flat bits of good old Switzerland- but it's started to rain, and the head has broken off the wonderful snowman (he even has snow buttons, as big as your fist!) and rolled downslope.

Writing is really weird. When it goes well, it seems as natural and inevitable and unstoppable as rain coming down. Of course it's coming down. Of course I'm writing good stuff. Of course. On the days when it doesn't work, it's as if I've been ordered to make it rain back up again. I try. It takes a lot of mental energy. It's like that accio thing. We've all tried that- "accio tea," or "accio donut." But no matter how hard I concentrate, I've never been able to get it to work. It's faster and less trouble to just make the tea myself. (If there's a lesson in that, I'm ignoring it.)

If there were a Dunkin' or a Krispy Kreme within 300km, I'd be on the bestseller list by now, I'm sure.

Today's Excuse

Dear Notebook,

The cat is on me. She has settled herself on my collarbone and to make sure she doesn't slide off, I need to lean back.
It is impossible to write in this position.



This is sad, so sad. I know we all have our good days and our bad days, but things are downright stinky lately. Whether I struggle with the same old stories, trying to make them subripe, or sit down to write something new, nothing jives at the moment.
And my feet are cold. If this keeps up much longer, I'm going to start writing limericks. Hmpf.

A writer once sat quite alone
ignoring the door and the phone
she drank so much tea
she needed to pee
when she came back to the book it was done!

bloody book fairies. they're almost as unreliable as the dish fairies...

I Keep Putting Words on the Page...

...but lately, they refuse to speak to me. I am not alarmed yet, though. I don't believe in writers' block. I think it's just the distraction- birthdays (check out the bat cake!) and the new cat (who tries to sit on my desk when I write, but since it's sloped, slides off into my lap. Either she's a slow learner, or she likes it :) or the wind-up to the annual mid-winter rush. Or ennui. How do you tell writers' block from ennui? Stab yourself in the thigh with a fork. If you feel compelled to write about it, it was ennui.

Anyway, here are cats, cakes, and the last of the leaves. Time to enjoy the grey, northern hemisphereites.

Feedback.

It's funny. Feedback hurts so much, sometimes, especially when you are first starting out. but really, it does get better.
At the beginning, it's like you're driving. And you're lost. Your companion wants to stop and ask this guy on the corner but you think, who's driving this car, me or him? So you drive on, facing stubbornly forward.

But you're still lost. So you pass a lady with a buggy and kids and your companion finally convinces you to stop, and he asks for direction. The lady gives them. They're pretty simple, she's pretty sure, she's only been living here for two weeks, but yes, she's quite sure.
So you follow her directions for a couple of blocks but the neighbourhood doesn't look quite right, even though she clearly said go down Maple till you get to Elm, so you turn off on Spruce. And you're lost again. You defend your actions saying, hey, the lady was out walking; she probably doesn't even have a license. What does she know?

The thing about all this is, after you spend a sufficient amount of time refusing directions, or ignoring the ones you get, you learn that they are not insults to your intelligence. They are not attacks on your personal worth, or your skill as a driver. Yes, you can probably find your own way without it eventually and thump your chest and I say I did it all by myself, but is it worth spending the whole day driving around in circles?

This seems totally obvious in a way, but haven't we all been in a car with someone, lost, who refused to stop for directions? And we're sitting in the passenger seat thinking, why? Why won't you stop and ask, you big lummox?

Oh, What Fun!

Another writing exercise from EE. The brief was to use the first 20 words of seven letters or more from a randomly chosen opening and then write a scene. Really, in a way I failed, because with this many French-rooted millitary words, I gave up trying to get away from the subject of the original text. But it was fun:


Mina SCREAMED as a bean burrito on a paper-napkin PARACHUTE DROPPED into her COCKPIT. Her COPILOT'S self-confidence was SHATTERED, and he BUCKLED as Mina let-fly a barrage of ANTI-ARTILLARY mashed potatoes, which was the best weapon the school cafeteria could PROVIDE. The ESCARPMENT her class had built out of lunchroom tables was already FALLING as tater-tots RICOCHETED like BULLETS against the makeshift SHELTER. BRACING herself, Mina launched a square of non-dairy cheese pizza. The AIRSPEED dwindled when the slice caught an UPDRAFT from one of the cafeteria ceiling fans. Still CLIMBING, it overshot the intended target. To uphold the honor of Mrs. Jenkins class, Mina selflessly THROTTLED Alec Fitzhugh, Mr. Walters' class president, into surrender. Merciful of his AGONIES, she declared victory by squirting him with catsup and took him prisoner. Mrs. Jenkins was pleased.

(from New Beginning 228)

Windows.

No excuse. I always think that if I can find a peaceful place, where there are no "you suck" messages seeping out of the walls or the internet or the phone, then I will be able to scrape myself together long enough to write something publishable. I know I am repeating myself here, but it is really frustrating when all the writing teachers say "it's great! don't know what you could change!" and all the publishers say "form rejection." (ok, a couple said "it's highly creative/original/had fun with it BUT," which is better than "fr," i admit.)

*Anyway,* (I seem to have a severe case of the post holiday babbles, here) above is the view from my office window, as of this morning. Note the violas, the nasturtiums, the cool welded chain sculpture in the neighbour's garden (big wooden thing is neighbour's house). And check out the picture below that, the view from our holiday cottage. There were grapes growing inside the winter garden there. Grapes!

I ought to be writing fucking masterpieces. I mean, any normal writer would have written a Pulitzer prize winner or a Nobel candidate by now! (I would just like to record that the temptation to go off on another HHGTTG babble here is almost overwhelming. Instead, you can see what I would have babbled about the idea of "normal" here, at about 1:30.) Just look at those views! You should see the view from my office when the roses are blooming!

Still. There is something amazing about windows. I love their symbolism. Not the "normal" exit. A hole built into a structure to let in light, or air, or chase a stray bee out of. But not for people. The temptation to climb out the window and not the door just to see if it changes anything, to see if I wind up in a different place, is very strong.

The Big Whine

Maybe I should just cross out 'writer.' It would take some of the pressure off. Or 'Artist.' Nevermind that these are things I have always wanted to do, and have always enjoyed doing. But my attempts to get published (and actually, my attempts to even get an education as a writer) have been frustrating. I know it takes a long time. I know it takes a Teflon-coated solid steel heart. I find it so difficult, though, when I'm never even sure I'm on the right track.

At the moment, it's more like a hollow heart. Like the next person who manages to hit it, it's going to go "BONG." (and echo a lot.)

Pout. I need a hug.
Then I need a writing teacher who actually knows what he/she is doing.

May Have Found the Source

of the problem. This is my WIP. There's a ton more where this came from. I know first novels (and probably all the rest of them as well) are a learning process, but do other people use this many post-it notes? Is this normal?

Just Because I Can.

Sally was not allowed to go out at night.
"It's dark. You'll step in dog poo," said Dad.
"The meanies will get you!" said Momma.
"Shhhh," said Grandma. "Wait till later."
When it was dark, and Sally was supposed to be in bed, Grandma took her walking stick from the umbrella stand. She took her old woolly cardigan with the patched elbows that had belonged to Grandpa Gene.
"You put on your jacket and lace up your shoes now, and we'll go."
And they did.
"Hello," they said to a young man with a spray can. He took off running.
They peeked in the window at the baker. He wasn't up yet. He was at home writing a novel almost as bad as this story. "Don't give up your night job." his friends would say.
"Oh look, a flying sofa!" said Gramma, and there it was, with a spotted chicken on it.