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| I can't believe I'm doing this again. GUD BAI GREATESTJOURNAL. And good fucking riddance. It took a good three minutes to load the update page. JOURNAL IS NOW HERE. EDIT: Link has been edited, routes to BlogSpot journal now. Livejournal pissed me off for the last time. :\ | ||||||||
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| GJ gave me a moment of pure terror when I saw the red message flickering above my update page's search bar. I was going to make a nonchalant, speculative fiction post, but was broadsided by "IMPORTANT: GJ is currently running on a backup DB - we recommend using exporting journal and using insanejournal instead - more info". I fled to LJBook to try to make a PDF of my entries before the shit hit the fan, but LJBook glitched part way through. I soon realized why: when I went to my journal page, it was gone. There is no more intristic fear for a writer than believing your work has been destroyed. I checked the news bulletins and found half the GJ members angrily ranting about how shitty GJ has been for the last few months (namely, cutting important services and keeping redundant ones - without asking us first) and the other half thanking the staff for making a quick backup so we could save our journals and flee before everything went to hell in a handbasket. I checked my main page again and found my entries were back, so back I went to LJBook and made a PDF copy. Coming back here, I tried to make a Rich Text post but the site borked every time I tried anything more complicated than lower case letters. Thumbing back to my safe raw content editor, I commenced making this post. I think it needs to be said that I've pulled my last straw with GJ. I wasn't particularily irriated with the staff until I noticed that the only reason I came to GJ in the first place had vanished (our 1000 userpic limit), replaced with first a 100 icon limit and finally a ten icon limit. The staff said it was to cut down on the database overload, but users pointed out the useless GJ Pic feature, a copycat of LJ's somewhat useful Scrapbook system. That redundant feature stayed in place while the only good thing about GJ slowly dwindled. I suppose in the end, its not the staff's fault, its the system. There isn't much they can do about it. But since I'm leery about going back to LiveJournal, I don't want to migrate over to InsaneJournal (at least, not until I find out why GJ is pimping them so much) and I can't really function well with WordPress's format. Heaven forbid, I might have to go back to where it all started for me in the blog universe: BlogSpot. We'll see. At any rate, this will most likely be my last post in this journal. I'll lol like a madman if I check back in a year and the system is fine, and my journal is still here. Adios! I'll update if/when I switch journal providers. | ||||||||
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"Oh fuck no," I say dryly. "No way in hell." He grins at me. Inside, I'm thinking, I've had quite enough of cocky gender-confused aliens, thank you. "You can call me Shay," he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. I don't react, although I want to laugh. "Your name isn't such a big deal," I reply. "People will believe a coincidental spelling of an obscure variant of an arabic word, even if it does basically sum up your career in four syllables. No, you know what I'm upset about." "Its more fun to see you angry." He raises one eyebrow. I'll have to ask him, when I'm feeling less argumentative, if all of his species have especially flexible eye ridges. "What am I supposed to say, huh? 'Tam, you are my father'?" "Oh dear lord in heaven what have I created." I lean my forehead on the tabletop. "No, absolutely not. No one's going to believe Tam is that important to my universes. The similarities are staying coincidental. And that's final." "We'll see," he says, grinning. "I heard how you handled Tam, tortured Thomadin, and tamed Shoaunen. Have fun with me." "One day," I mutter into the table, "I'm going to shoot myself in the character-creating part of my anatomy." "I'll let you borrow my gun, as long as you figure out that tart's story first." He laughs when I groan in frustration. Oh! what was life like before these people invaded it? If I can call him Shay, the rest of you can call him Hashashiyyin. He hates that. | ||||||||||
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| Today (yesterday? its after midnight) was a really lazy sort of day. It feels like all kinds of weird since dad isn't here during the day or the evening... and won't be for another week. He e-mails me periodically from random internet cafes, but still. Weird. (The e-mails have so far consisted of bad grammar, a scenery update, and a little "you should've come lol" taunting. Not like I'm counting.) In the end, I didn't actually have any concrete plans, so it was going to be wasted no matter what I did. Anyways. Tomorrow (today? ugggh) I'm hoping fevrently that Tanners will call and say, "y helo thar ur book cum in" or something because damn, pirate linguistics. Totally worth bombing my gift certificate on. I'm also waiting for a "Who Is John Galt?" tee-shirt and a rare tarot deck in the mail. The Purolator man and his white van have been teasing me all week by parking outside the window to do other deliveries. TRAITOR. Believe it or not, on the story/art front, I'm having a real challenge making The Assassin from Eilya's story seem a little less like Tam. Right now, the only thing that makes them different is a few anatomical details (and Tam's BDSM tendencies but we don't talk about that). I'll try to get a decent sketch of him by the next sketch dump. :( I watched Spiried Away and then 39 episodes of Red VS Blue a few hours ago, resulting in me FINALLY UNDERSTANDING an avatar I've had for years but just thought was amusing. The "Yeah, that's right. I'm a BIG GAY ROBOT" one. Win. Also Spirited Away creeps me out, but not because of goo-spewing mutant spirits and ugly witches. If a character said something to the effect of "ITS THE POWER OF TRUE LOVE" one more time, I would have projectile-vomited on the keyboard. Is it just me or did this week go really really fast. Okay, last thing. Award for the most disjointed post ever, please. Totally not intentional. | ||||||||
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| Some more experimental fiction. I'm super-proud of this drabble; I've been meaning to write it for a long time. "Why," I said as something pressed against my temple. Gentle application of strength. Firm. “Why?” I repeated, when my voice failed me. I felt the pressure ease slightly. “Why?” His breath at my ear; a shiver rippled under my skin, worming its way up my spine. My surprise when he didn’t comment on it. “Why what?” “Why did you do all of this,” I whispered, afraid my voice would fail again. “All those people. The last month, everything. Why?” “I guess you’re expecting me to tell the story of my horrific childhood, then. About how my father beat me and my mother, how I was abused through school, about all the people who abandoned me.” His voice was barely louder than mine, but no less cold than before. “I’m expecting you to tell me the truth,” I said. “And why, exactly,” I felt his mouth press closer to my ear, “Do you think you deserve my time? It would be a waste.” “The last month has been more of a waste,” I replied angrily, gaining a spark of strength. “Dead men tell no tales,” I reminded him after a moment of tense silence. I could hear him thinking. “I was raised in a small, suburban home,” he murmured finally. The metal lifted from my temple, but just a hair. I could still feel its warm weight close to my skin. Warmed by his body. He must have been carrying it in his pocket. “I had no siblings. My parents doted on me and raised me to perfection. You would find no one who could find fault in their method, or complain about their attitude. They loved each other very much.” I turned my head a little, the barrel bumping into my eyebrow. It was further away than I’d thought, and so was he. I couldn’t see his face. “I was a well-behaved student with many friends throughout my schooling. I attended schools in the same district until I graduated, achieving high grades and the praise of the administration.” His face came into view, the tiniest smile on his lips. I watched them as he spoke. “There’s nothing in my past that would make me a sadistic, cold-hearted murderer in my later years. I bet the shrinks are clamouring to dig around in my brain matter.” And still, so cold. “What are you thinking?” He asked quietly, not dropping the smile. “For some reason,” I said steadily, “I can’t seem to get over feeling slighted at my upcoming death at the hands of an utterly normal man.” He burst out laughing. By some miracle, his gun arm didn’t move an inch even as his shoulders shook. I continued watching his face as the joviality subsided slowly, replaced with something unidentifiable. I couldn’t sort anger from sadness in his expression. “It would almost be a shame to kill you, after all this.” He chuckled, and the smile was back. “I’ve sort of grown attached to you.” Utterly disarming. If I’d passed him in the street at this exact instant, pistol in his hand, I would have trusted that rakish grin. In the present, it gave me the guts to make a joke, in what I was well aware would be my last moments. “I believe you’re mistaking yourself for the branding iron you used three days ago.” Laughter, again. I didn’t entertain the idea that he might free me if I amused him; I was well aware that it was too late for that. Which is why you could have knocked me over with a feather—I do mean literally, if you recall my emaciated state—when he asked me. “What would you do if I let you go?” There was suddenly something in his eyes, something that forced me to look away. I chose down. “Honestly, now.” He continued. “What would you really do?” “First,” I said, “I would take a bath.” I paused, at a loss for words. This was something I hadn’t had an opportunity to think about, let alone plan. A gentle nudge with the metal at my temple reminded me why. “Next... next I would find some money. And order take-out. I might turn on the television and see what I missed while I was underground. I would go to sleep, in my bed. I don’t know if I would get up early to see the sunrise, or sleep for a week.” I paused again, wanting to shake my head but wary of the gun. “I don’t know what I would do after that.” “The rest of your life,” he prompted quietly. “If I recall, you had no plans when I brought you here. In fact, your next big event was very likely a short drop and a sudden stop.” “I—“ I stiffened, knowing what I didn’t want to admit. He knew it too. “You don’t want to die anymore, do you?” I expected him to laugh again, but I only heard his breathing. “You want to savor your food and watch a sunrise. And that’s just the first day, isn’t it? The first day to the rest of your life.” “I’m inclined to agree with you,” I whispered. “Unfortunately, there doesn’t appear to be much of my life left.” “I’m inclined to agree with you. Although I’m sure you, of all people, can appreciate the irony of your situation.” “Absolutely.” “Good,” he said, removing the gun from my temple and walking behind me, only to press it to the opposite side of my head. I flinched involuntarily when I felt a hand on my shoulder and his breath at my ear again. “That makes two of us.” When you watch crime dramas on television, almost everything is a lie. There is one thing that I’ve found to be true. The smooth clicks of the safety catch being flicked is the loudest sound in the world. I kept my eyes open. The last thing I saw would be darkness whether I closed them or not. | ||||||||
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| I was posting a comment on an aquaintance's journal, in response to her post asking how her readers saw her writing. What sort of things, she asked, are trademarks of my stories and style? I began to explain how it was difficult for me to come up with the words to describe things outside of my head, then diddled out a little thought-burst of how I saw her stories and her writing. I was astonished to see that without trying, as soon as I let myself momentarily forget that I had a 'speech impediment' and had 'immense challenges putting words to concepts', my language was back. I talked about full spectrum rainbows, skipping and skimming and emotions, torture and romance, poetry and scrap metal wings. I touched on divine messengers and Storytelling trees, and plucking the perfect word for a concept-void. After the 2006 NaNoWriMo, I couldn't write or draw reliably for months. It took nearly until the 2007 NaNo just to get back a little of my languishing poet's tongue, and half as long to believe I was an artist again. I was paralyzed with fear that the same thing would happen this year. It didn't. But something more traumatizing did. I retained every nuance of my abilities... but lost the will to perform them. Slowly, crawling by inches, I'm gaining it back. The heartless apathy is beginning to lift, and I can start to see beyond the endless cloud-scapes of unmotivation. When I sat down a few days ago to this journal and wrote a small piece about Eilya, it was unplanned. I was unprepared. I made up names, locations, concepts, aliens, and language on the spot... and it turned out beautifully. Now I know that I am only required to do one thing in order to gain back my motivation, my talent, and my self-respect. All I have to do is show up at the page. | ||||||||
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| Note to self: download "Shelter From The Storm" (Bob Dylan or otherwise) once Limewire is installed. ...that's all I've got. | ||||
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Ahh, news posts. Reading: Survival by Julie Czerneda (again). I bought all three books in the Species Imperative trilogy yesterday as a sort of gift to myself, because her writing is spectacular and funny and detailed. Also picking my way through We The Living (Ayn Rand) still because its a challenge. :\ Its a thin book, but its a tough read. Especially when I keep getting Andrei and Leo mixed up. Also also, Dhalgren again (Samuel Delany) because I'm feeling like old favorites. Plus, you know, post-armageddon research. Writing: I desperately want to write, but putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is proving... difficult. And I'm not sure quite why, yet. Drawing: A lot. The stupid thing is, I need to install the drivers for the printer so I can scan, even though I can already print from it. I hate my scanner. Anyways. Drawing a lot of aliens, lately... so far, along with the stuff I already scanned a week ago, I've got two Eilyas, one Jamara-whose-name-may-be-changed, and a page or two pages full of fucked up space-port aliens. More pages on their way, because I've got a sheet of alien descriptions sitting right next to me. Ready for six-legged, three-armed unicorn-people? *innocent look* JESUS CHRIST THEY'RE INVADING MY SPACEPORT. Other Babble: I still haven't figured out exactly what The Assassin looks like, except that he's taking a remarkable Tam-shift in both personality and appearance. But Tam's already in his own story, Aiah's story, Ryonyhana's story, and Tsii's story. So, Eilya doesn't get a Tam. She gets a... someone else. (On a side note, a lot of my aliens are developing horns. This probably says something deep and probably Freudian about my psyche, but I'm not gonna go there.) Consumer Whore Status: Yesterday I bought the Species Imperative trilogy, Room To Write, a gigantic used philosophy textbook, and a book of LSD-induced poetry-orders from Ram Dass. I almost bought the book detailing the beginnings and history of LSD (called Acid Dreams) but it was a tad much at the used-book-pro-anarchy-store-thing. I'm kicking myself for not buying the volume of lesbian poetry though - that was a gem. Not books, but I bought something else: "punk" pants from Randy River. Apparently I'm a 28-waist now holy shit. Last time I went in there to buy my chute-pants, I was like a 32? Anyways, they're the same ones Other than all that, my uncle's coming down from Campbell River tonight. (He's the one going to Arizona with my dad... they leave Wednesday morning! o__o) He was supposed to come down tomorrow, but they've already got an inch of snow on the ground and they're expecting 12 inches by this evening. So, its understandable. I'm sort of looking forward to having a guest around for a day and a half, even if he is the one that called me "sixteen going on six" last time we saw each other (apparently because I didn't say please when asking for my booze... yes, I know its a contradiction). FAIL POST OVER. | ||||||||||
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| I just got the best idea evars for an EPIC LOVE STORY between a scarecrow and a ragdoll. ...yes. Epic. I love how I don't even try to be coherant anymore. | ||||||||
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| Post for my own reference~ (plz to be ignorins, public because I just don't care) 1. Steampunk regency? could combine with pirates-riding-dragons if 'alien critter' substitutes dragon. Assassin-pen-pal plot already a part of this; Eilya has been writing to him/her for how long now? Jamara is getting complicated and I'm not sure I like his name anymore. Was sort of spur of the moment. Eilya's parents find appropriate suitor before she can escape -- is it going to be escaped assassin or autistic dude like originally or should I just invent some batshit crazy guy? 2. Band project - holy fuck are we back to post-apocolyptica already? What the fuck do you guys do. You're not a band anymore, honestly. I'm not writing 50 angry!songs for you. I know you're in some sort of structure (boat? ship? house? floating castle?) with at least one bathroom and no roof on the second level. 3. Back to steampunk regency, Eilya needs to stop being so fucking gorgeous. I CAN'T DRAW YOU WELL, DEAR. (Awwn~ I said I wasn't going to ever make a gratuitously gorgeous character~) 4. Note to self - design alien species for the band project to putz around with. And a couple more aliens for Eilya to terrify her parents with because aliens = LOVE. ...kay done. | ||||||||
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| I think my head is halfway to exploding. But I'm too muddled - having just woken up - to explain it just yet. So I had to log on to Greatest Journal to say that. ... *skitters off* | ||||||||
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| "No, that's too sharp. I'm supposed to be perfect." I glance up at her wryly. She doesn't mean 'supposed to be perfect' in the sense that she believes she is perfect, but more like 'its assumed I'm perfect' or 'I'm told I'm perfect'. I put the pencil back down and fix the bridge of her nose. "Better?" "Yes." She wanders over and picks up my bag of hand-made runestones, hefting its weight in her thin hand. I take a close look at the bag to see why its attracted her attention: something hidden, something in red velvet. Of course. Its tied with sailor's twine, too. I watch her set it down and eye my scale model of Stonehenge critically, attempting to tip over one of the glued-down sarsens to no avail. The painted skull gets a longer appraisal before she's crouched in front of my altar, tapping and stroking shiny bits of stone. "You're going to be a real handful, aren't you?" I ask, laughing. "Just like Thomadin." "Who's Thomadin?" She looks at me with a complex expression; her nose is wrinkled, she's smirking... then she winks. I roll my eyes. "You're not worming your way into his story. By this time, he's supposed to be dead." "Suit yourself." She turns over my androgynous prayer carving. "Is he an alien?" I pause on that one, and I can hear him sniggering in my mind. "Sort of. Won't you come over here and tell me your story?" Her flaming hair falls in thick waves over her shoulders when she looks back at me. "You're on your own, there. Make it up, I don't care. It won't be any less incredulous than the truth." I raise one finger in protest, but she's already ignoring me. I drop the hand and raise an eyebrow, then pull the sketchpad back to my knees. "I'm supposed to be writing Eliseo's story, bitch," I grouse. "Well, now you can write Eilya's story. Which is more interesting, do you think?" "Eliseo's. You're pretty normal compared to his world, I'm afraid." She turns back with an utterly bemused expression, grinning. "Oh, really? Just wait, doll. I'll show you wonders your Eliseo can't begin to dream of." "That's what I'm afraid of," I mutter, and catch her eyes on the page. She just laughs aloud. | ||||||||
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Some experimental fiction. Enjoy! ---------------------------------------- Tiny clicks echoed throughout the sprawling hall before the woman. At the end of the wooden arroyo, the door opened slowly, pausing briefly before widening its gape. As the woman neared, she began to pick out features of the young man walking towards her: tall, slender, handsome with his fall of pale hair. As he passed her, the youth sketched a quick bow although no expression touched his face. She continued walking until she reached the room at the end of the hall, peering into the doorway quietly. "Another has turned us down," the old man at the desk said softly, and beckoned the woman closer. She entered slowly, shaking her head. "We must not give up. There must be some man out there brave enough to accept." "Perhaps somewhere, out there." The man admitted. The arm he swept in a dismissive arc matched the tall windows; thin and wiry, stiffening with the cobwebs of age. The woman tore her gaze away from the dust gathering in high corners, and wandered to the nearest clear pane. After a moment, she gave a soft, disparing sigh. "Victor, your daughter is climbing the fulton beams again." The man groaned and cradled his forehead in one hand, leaning into his shining desk. "She isn't up there in hoops, is she?" "I believe," the woman squinted into the distance, shading her eyes with long fingers, "I believe she is wearing pantaloons." "Thank the Lord. Shall I call Jamara to fetch her down, or shall you?" "Perhaps you had better." The woman gave a faint shudder that her husband did not fail to notice. "If you'll pardon my honesty, Jamara makes my skin crawl." Viktor rose from his chair laboriously, and walked over to lay a gentle but brief hand on her shoulder, before walking stiffly to the great double doors. Pausing to retrieve an ivory cane from its holder, he left the room without a sound. *** K'sanii natives had described her in epithets and poetry, most of which was - to her - hilariously explicit. Were her mother to discover what the horned aliens said of her body and her mind... the girl laughed aloud. "The name of the game is l'lok tsaani," she heard the sailors sing far below, "And the name of the player is l'laa ktai..." "L'laa ktai must leave the sky-world now," someone said nearby, and she turned with a ready smile on her full lips. The wind tore another lock of hair from its loose tie, obscuring her vision for a tender moment. Pulling it from her eyes, she waited for the servant to clamour to the top of the webbed beam. "L'laa ktai wants to hear the sailors sing to the sea mother," she replied. "Hello, Jamara. Come to rescue my lily white posterior, I surmise?" The creature gave a rasping laugh, showing fang, before turning his glowing eyes to the sailors below them. "I'd like to listen to the sailors too, young mistress, but formal duties call." "I don't have any formal duties," she said smoothly. "Ah, but ye do. Your duty, young sprite, is to snare a smitten mongrel by his britches and haul him to the altar." She sniffed. "I'll do a lot more than snare his britches, if I find the right one. But that hasn't happened as of yet, has it?" "No, mistress. But I'm afraid yon padre desires your feet to touch the gravel before evenfall, and Jamara fears the brimstone he promises." He grinned at her, baring two rows of cloud-white teeth, and aped the mode of speech he used around his master. "Jamara good k'sanii. No hurt Jamara, Jamara git lil' miss down safe." She leaned over and tugged one of his curling horns, smiling sadly. "Jamara good. L'laa ktai good too. L'laa ktai go to stone-world now." "Good l'laa ktai," Jamara scrambled down the supporting cable, tail swaying erratically. She descended with more grace, dragging out her endless view of the horizon as long as she could under the pretense of lady-like care. Upon the ground, she strode past her exasperated father in the manner of sailors; arms swinging widely and toes arched, her hair swirling behind her like a veil of silk. Jamara paused at his master's side tentitavely. "Jamara good? Mistress Eilya safe?" "Yes, Jamara. You did good," Viktor sighed. "Now go... go make sure she puts a blouse on, for the love of God. Better yet, skirts, if you can bribe her into them." Jamara grinned widely where Viktor couldn't see, and walked after the girl's retreating shadow. "Yes, Master. Jamara do." "And...Jamara?" The alien turned and glanced at the old man. "You wouldn't lie to me. Do k'sanii women truly doff their blouses to work the riggings at sea? You didn't tell her this, did you?" "True, Master. True. But Jamara was not one who told." "Good, good." Victor made a shooing motion with a bony arm. "Go on, now. I trust you to make her halfway decent." Well, I wasn't the one who told her, Jamara thought to himself, amused, as he strode toward the mansion. I just took her onto the ship. | ||||||||
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| I think I'm addicted to StumbleUpon and its all *points* YOUR FAULT. D8 *sobs* Okay, okay, so its not that bad. StumbleUpon is literally the best program I've ever come into contact with, and I'm pretty sure I'll never be bored again so long as I have one finger and my stumble-button. Off topic, but I'm feeling like I'm losing my writing touch. My linguistic poetry is MIA. | ||||||||
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2007 In Review Art: 225 total drawings, 82 "finished" (meaning finished sketch or inked/coloured). Not good enough, want to do better this year. Writing: Wrote 50,000 words of Eliseo's story, Child Of Moon And Night. Didn't reach any other writing goals, just did a lot of worthless planning and musing. Reading: Hardly read any books. Started a lot and didn't finish them. Must do better this year. Consumer Whore Status: Bought way too many tarot decks, spent too much money. Parents bought me a laptop. Metaphysical: Attained level three Reiki. Other: Got tattooed. Made a whole bunch of dreamcatchers. Knitted a shawl. Nearly beat Super Mario 64 ( Tarot Year: 2007 was my Hierophant year. Goals For 2008 Art: Minimum 200 pieces. Want to finish more stuff this year. Hopefully at least 2-3 epic paintings, as well. Writing: Finish Eliseo's story and finish at least half of one other story. Write at least 5 short stories or flash fictions, and/or 5 good poems. Reading: Actually use GoodReads account to log books. No set goal, just try to read a lot. Try for finishing A Course In Miracles. Metaphysical: No specific goals, actually. Possibly attempt to pray or pray-write daily, but that'll likely come on its own. Other: Get and hold a full-time job. Get at least one more tattoo. These are vague, but journal more and attempt to finish oracle deck. Try not to meet too many new characters. x___x Tarot Year: 2008 is my Lovers year, apparently. Intreiguing. Especially since its the same as my personality card, which means its going to be an excellent year in spiritual growth and development. *crosses fingers* EDIT: I'm having terrible difficulty deciding whether January is going to be the month I write the second half of Eliseo's novel. I don't want to let myself down and fail at my January goal, but I just don't think this is the time. Perhaps February. I don't know. I'm feeling really conflicted, and I basically have one afternoon to decide. | ||||||||
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| I will begin this entry with something I thought I'd never say in a thousand years. Vista isn't horrible as long as you change your setting to something resembling XP. *shot* *sigh* At any rate, as you might have guessed, the new laptop came today. I've spent the better part of my afternoon trying to figure it out, finding out we got a second defective copy of Guitar Hero, figuring out more of the computer, re-teaching myself how to type, drinking Bailey's and cream, going back to the computer. ugh. I've got such a technology hangover (I'm waiting for the Bailey's hangover to kick in). I'm in the process of transferring all of my stuff onto the new computer, and finding out a lot of things in the process. One, I have five and a half gigs of photos on my old laptop. Oops. Two, I didn't have nearly as much other stuff as I thought, so most of that was transferred easily by jump drive. Three, I am totally baffled by the immensity of this screen. Its like surfing a fucking TV. Four, Vista didn't take up nearly as much room as I originally suspected. Five, I'm so exhausted. I should go to bed. And um, Happy New Year. :D;; | ||||||||
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| I really need to go to bed but I just needed to jot this down. WHAT THE FUCK, DEPRESSION. I THOUGHT WE DEALT WITH THIS ALREADY. MULTIPLE TIMES. LEARN AND LISTEN, GODDAMMIT. You may now return to your regularily scheduled doldrums. | ||||||||
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Incoherant post!
In conclusion.
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| I was lied to. :\ Apparently the laptop isn't coming from Vancouver after all, but rather from Ontario. And because Canada Post's tracking system is so clunky, I'll never really know where the thing is until it shows up on the doorstep. What's more, the next two days are probably non-delivery (weekend), add in one Monday, remove Tuesday because of New Year's, then maybe I'll get my package. Urg. Irritating. And I was so hoping it out be here soon. :( *weeps* Anyways, lets have a random news post. We haven't done that in a while. Writing: Not much, but doing a lot of planning. Story ideas, especially short fiction, are spewing forth from my brain like little Aphrodites. Or was it Venuses? Whatever. Drawing: Quite a bit, actually. I should be able to scan soon. Reading: On MCA Hogarth's suggestion, We The Living by Ayn Rand, as well as finishing up The Right To Write by Julia Cameron and diddling my way through essays on how to write. (Primarily horror, sci-fi and fantasy.) Child Of Moon And Stars Update: In 3 days, I have to be back in Eliseo's head and in my desert mind... and ready to write 1500+ words a day for another month. Ah, JaNoWriMo. I'm not feeling the love from those forums, I tell you. The NaNo community is much more... of a community. JaNo seems to be a collection of individuals, but in a different way, yes? Boredom Update: Valiantly trying to quash me and failing. I certainly won't be bored in January! Other: I may be posting some short stories, flash fiction, and a tentative alphabet-sketch project here soon. Keep an eye out. | ||||||||
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I went into Victoria on Boxing Day (otherwise known as "if I get trampled in this mob, I want Rina to have my tarot cards") and made a stop at Chapters. Upon reaching the writing section, I noticed a book I've been waffling over for - literally - years: The Writer's Book of Matches; 1001 Prompts To Ignite Your Fiction. Its even coloured and shaped like a dime-store sheaf of "strike anywhere" matches. After flipping it over and riffling the pages a bit, I plopped it in the cart. I thought, "What the heck. I've got Christmas money and its cheap." I get it home and finally look through it a little more carefully... good lord, this thing is absolutely spectacular! If I wrote a short story for every prompt, I'd be rich, famous, and comfortable. Some of the brilliant, whimsical prompts include:
If I only wrote from this book for the rest of my life, I think I'd be happy. Its fucking amazing. My ADD is sated! For the first time in my life! *falls over* | ||||||||
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bryi
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