Saturday, August 12, 2006
Weather – how the hell would I know? It’s still dark, and I haven’t been to bed yet.
Wrote six of the 25 short articles yesterday, and worked on one of the big ones.
Jasper Fforde and Terry Pratchett are so terrific at satire. Their precision is meticulous. I don’t want to write “like them” – I want to write “like me”, but I want to learn from the things they do so well and apply it properly.
Poor Strand Books! I keep them hopping. They had to “wait list” several of the books I ordered because I didn’t get off my duff quickly enough to put in the order before the books were gone. Obscure, hard-to-find, out-of-print tomes, of course. So they’re keeping an eye out for the books for me. I want them, and I so appreciate their efforts on my behalf. I won’t crumble up without them, but whenever they turn up, I’ll be happy. Strand is the equivalent of my grown-up babysitter.
One of the houses I looked at went down $20,000 in price, and another nearly $35,000. Both houses are on the “they might work” list, not the “oh, Wow!” list, so I’m not yet scrambling to put in an offer. I don’t believe I’ve found THE house yet.
And it’s not even that I haven’t found the house with “everything I want”. I know that I won’t get everything on my list (even though the list isn’t all that long). I’ll know the house when I walk into it because it will feel like mine. And I haven’t had that feeling yet. So, I keep looking. It may well be nothing like what I think My House will be like – but I’ll know it’s mine.
Spent far too much time (and money) grocery shopping – but it’s all good. I feel secure when the larder is full. I get more like my cats every day.
And, speaking of hissy fits, I have an additional journal called Wordish Wanderings, which is basically an offshoot of this one and will often link back to it. Since I had to sign up with Live Journal in order to leave comments properly, I created a journal. And then I felt guilty about not using it. So I make entries here and there. Sometimes the entries will have cross purposes with this one. Yesterday’s entry is an extension of what I wrote here about the airline industry. I suddenly remembered the Vicki Barr mystery series and . . .well, hop on over there if you want to read it.
Did some work on Real – got them past the opening night party, where Sam punched out a deserving drunk. It felt good to slide back into the book again, and I feel guilty about leaving my characters for so long.
Found the notebook holding “Ris an Abrar” in it – I signed up for BIAW over on Villa in Tuscany, and that’s the piece on which I want to work next week. While continuing to work on the articles and on Real. We’ll see how that goes, shall we?
It’s finally cool enough to cook again. Last night, I made baked breaded cod fillets, with garlic-and-basil mashed potatoes, steamed spinach, and sweet organic corn. Too bad I was out of the wonderful Monkey Bay sauvignon blanc – the Mud House bottle was just a tad too flat and sweet for the meal. Other plans for the weekend include bruschetta, a tuna and olive tapenade, and a smoked mackerel pate (it was supposed to be bluefish, but there’s no bluefish in any of the fish markets around here right now, so I’m attempting the recipe with mackerel. If it’s awful, you’ll hear about it.
I’ve switched almost all my grocery shopping over the genuinely organic food from as many local growers as possible. The taste and quality are much higher, the price difference is minute. And, because I’m eating better, my energy and overall health is better, I’m supporting actual working farms instead of big corporations, and I’m eating less because the food has more nutrients and I’m not snacking with fillers all the time. I’m not just talking the talk, I’m walking the walk, which is important.
Finished typing Chapter 8 of Shallid. Still completely in love with the book – although it still needs A LOT of work.
Some paragraphs in Tim Page’s autobiography of Dawn Powell, to which I can relate:
“Even when she was not actively working on a novel, short story, or play, Powell would carry small spiral-bound notebooks in her handbag so she could jot down thoughts at restaurants, bars, or parties, in the middle of the day or night – whenever and wherever they occurred to her. She would then copy these fragments onto loose leaf sheets and eventually place them in larger notebooks where she also kept newspaper clippings, quotations from books she was reading, epigrams from the classics, conversations she had overheard, and slightly fictionalized word ‘portraits’ of friends and acquaintances.”
“By this time, Powell was drafting some of her novels by hand and others on a typewriter; she constantly debated the merits of the two approaches and firmly believed that the choice made a difference in the end result.” (p. 196)
Both excerpts are taken from Dawn Powell: A Biography by Tim Page, New York: Owl Books, Henry Holt and Company.1998. Paperback.
Maybe I should try to get some sleep now.
Real – first draft -- 87,500 words out of est. 100,000
87 / 100
Shallid – Draft 1A – 19,519 words out of 82,000
19 / 82