signal

The melodious sound that greeted me as I stretched out my neck this morning was the tearing of a handful of bubblewrap.  And, let me say, I feel so much better for it.  I don’t know the actual biological process that goes on to make that noise, but the end result is the release of a muscle knot in my neck, and shoulder, and all the way down my back, that had been plaguing me for days on end.  It’s really nice to be able to turn my head, however gingerly I have to do so at the moment.

I slept like crap last night, and I think part of it is because I had a diet Dr. Pepper (thank you, Dragon, for translating that as didactic cover, that should be the name of a cover band), and part of it is because I quit taking the Lyrica that I’ve been on for almost six months now.  I never did get up over seventy five milligrams a day, two in the morning was too much, taking one during the day made me sleepy, two at night worked great but then I would lose time later when the drop of the drug in my bloodstream would cause me to have dizziness and stomach pains.  I would make the worlds worst drug addict.  I have absolutely no tolerance for any kind of negative side effect with medication.  Life is hard enough without adding to it that way.

Today, I need to get about two thousand words in, at least, and then in theory we’re taking a drive down to my parents in that cargo van I rented yesterday to drop off two dining room sets, one sofa, one chair, and some coffee tables.  After that, it’s up to IKEA to purchase the furniture we’re going to replace all that with.  The driving alone is making me anxious, especially with the weather having turned to shit, and on top of that we are going to spend a whole bunch of money.

I hate spending money.  I hate driving places, even if I am not driving.  I hate getting rid of things.  I think I’m just going to hate today.  I could be wrong, though.  So.  Happy face on!

As an addendum, the novel that I wrote earlier this month was accepted by the e-publisher I submitted it to.  I’m really pleased about that, especially since they don’t expect too many modifications.  It was really nice to find myself asking questions before I told them to send me the contract.  It’s good to be getting into a position where I’m no longer a wagging puppy over having my work accepted.

Okay, off to shower and dress, then writing-time!

For some reason, the way I’ve been sitting while working for the last month is killing my neck and shoulders.  I wouldn’t complain except that I like being able to turn my head and move my arms.  I’m working from bed today — which is not to say that I’m sleeping but that I’m sitting upright and trying to keep my shoulders relaxed, all yogi-like.  Hopefully, not slouching or leaning will let my shoulders relax, because this, my friends, is made of LOSE.

I’ve written about 1300 words and skived off for more than an hour at this point.  Again, doing it wrong.  I want to get finished with this novella I’ve had floating about for the last 4 month; pecking out under 2000 words a day is not going to fly.  I crossed the 90k mark for the month and I am hoping to pull through 100k by the end.

I forgot I have to rent a truck for TOMORROW.  I am so made of fail today.  *tries to find a cargo van to rent*  Thank you, Budget Car/Truck rentals for having one left over.

Domestic narging after the jump.

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Thanks to Marnanel who found Twitpress for me. Let’s see how this done? Twitpress. I can think of a few publishing houses who ought to be scrabbling over having their copyright violated by someone else using that title.

You can find my Twitters here.

EDIT: Let me just say HOW MUCH I love WordPress and Firefox. Seriously, between the two of them, I am just such a happy camper. Zoom. Open FireFTP and plug in the plugins and suddenly, all is well. It’s not easy to make me happy either. I’m not happy that I haven’t written yet today. *slogs off to the word mines*

This is one of my new deities, it seems: Ihaytchual, God of Indigent Plot Bunnies and Their Enablers. If you sound out his name, you’ll understand it. I just finished and sent off a novel gifted to me from above (or below) by Ihaytchual.

Ihaytchual is a selectively hermaphroditic God, but his primary form is that of a smug bastard who isn’t the one who has to write this shit. He makes his divine appearances right when you have your fucking schedule for the year in order. It is his great purpose to fuck over your carefully laid plans (you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men, only the mice don’t really get screwed, they just put that in there so that men wouldn’t feel quite so picked on because they could always say: Yeah, but the Mice are fucked, too!) with inspirations that you can’t ignore.  Worse, he works his mysterious ways through his pawns, your dearest friends, so that you cannot tell him to fuck off.  He mocks you from behind their innocent and enthusiastic visages.

You can’t sacrifice anything to Ihaytchual other than your social life and fifteen pounds you’ll gain pounding out a novel and cramming soothing Pringles down your maw in a desperate attempt to get it done so you can get back on track. Oh, some people like to praise the bastard, but honestly, I would have had plenty of damn inspiration without his help. Now I’m perpetually behind (the patron saint of being perpetually behind is Wydassia, an immensely fat and beautiful virgin who was unsullied due to her inability to get around to making a decision; Wydassia failed to show up to a fertility ritual to bless the fields, because she had written a novel instead of doing the laundry and had nothing to wear, and thusly all the crops died. Summarily, she was burned at the stake for her sins. She was canonized in part because she burned with such vigor that she took her entire town with her — falling behind will burn you every time) and lighting beef tallow candles to Wydassia in a desperate attempt to get her to go sit on someone else’s schedule.

It’s 9:30am and I can feel Wydassia sitting on me while Ihaytchual cackles gleefully. If they don’t watch it, I’m going to call an exorcist, or at least a professional organizer. Lo, I am blessed with the presence of saints and the fond attentions of a God. It’s not as shiny as they make it sound.

1. I am not reading your writing.

1a. This has nothing to do with how I feel about you.

1b. If you ask me directly to read something, tell me what you want from my review, give me context, and I have time, I may read your writing. If it is a novel, I probably won’t.

1c. If you get published, I may read your writing to see what got you published. I probably won’t, though.

1d. I do not expect you to read my writing. Wanting, wishing, and expecting are not at all the same.

2. I will happily support you as a writer, when you need help pimping your work or getting reviewed or writing a cover letter or even just coming over and chatting on your blog to make it look like you have fans and colleagues.

3. I write for publication. If you think this makes me a traitor to my muse or some kind of whore, you may kindly take a hike.

4. I hate it when you blow me off with ‘oh, your writing is always good’ when I talk about wanting to improve, or ask for your thoughts on things. This is an art, I practice it, and I like making it better. It’s not a sin. I don’t mind if you don’t want to talk about it, though.

5. I hate it when you go on about how you wish you could have my wordcount; I understand, and you could have it if you did nothing else for eight hours a day like me and were housebound with PTSD. I wish I could take the bus. Also, reflect on all the years I didn’t even have use of my hands and couldn’t tell the difference between the iron and the milk jug, and so on… I earned every six-figure month I can scrounge up. I’m proud of my progress but I don’t want you to feel bad because of it.

6. My characters may have the names of your characters. We share a common tongue, and I use names from other cultures as well. This happens. Do not point it out unless you are amused and wish to share the funny. Your cognitive dissonance is not my problem. I have the same problem in turn; you will never hear about it from me.

7. This is what I do. This is what I’m good at. This is all I have right now. I don’t think I’m a better writer than you, or a better person than you. I have no investment in either. I want you to be a good writer. I want you to be a happy writer. I don’t have time to help you or teach you; I’m all worn out on that count. If reading my writing on writing helps you, I’m thrilled. If you feel worse than me or something, I’m genuinely sorry. That sucks hardcore. I feel that way a lot about a lot of writers.

8. I know nothing. There’s so much to know about writing and I know so little about it, that it amounts to nothing. Please file my words of wisdom accordingly.

9. I have to go write now.

I need a place to work because I have to send this computer in for upgrade and poking and prodding.  The video card is loose (I ran into a door with the computer, shut up, shut up) and I need to upgrade the soundcard.

Anyway, off to Staples and places now.  I used a box of paper in the last 6 months.  5000 sheets of paper.  Damn.  Later, edits on a novella and more work on a novel.  Hoping for a 5k day.

So, I’m off LJ for the time being.  I’m trying to wean myself from the teat of other people’s lives.  I think it’s good for me.  And I’ll maintain this blog for myself and for anyone else who cares to take a look.  We’ll see how it goes.  I have another blog for my alter-ego, and I’ll work on that as well.  No LJ.

Happy Spring.

Writing a novel is like throwing yourself down the stairs. You stand at the top going “I’m fucking INSANE” and then you fling yourself out into space (maybe you have a plan, but that’s about as useful in some novels as your ‘falling down the stairs’ strategies). All the way down you’re going “ow, ow, why am I doing this?” with the occasional “WHEE” in between. You hit the bottom and you lie there thinking “am I really done? am I?” Then you realize… it’s time to get up and do it AGAIN.

Back to the top of the stairs with me. Time to pick a staircase and throw myself down again.

Easter weekend, which means to me — less writing time. Less wordcount. And it harshes my plans to make this a 100k month. *profanity goes here* I should suck it up and smile, but I’m just not that inspired.

The choice between tags and categories is baffling and irritating me. *uses categories instead* Maybe tags are for more trivial and ephemeral things?*

EPHEMERAL. One of my favourite words ever.

Time to write, time to plot. If I do a mindmap today, I’ll photograph it and post it.

*Edit: I notice that this layout calls ‘categories’ = ‘tags’ and doesn’t show tags. EASIER FOR ME. Or maybe I’ll hack it later so I can be retentive that way.