Category Archives: Diary

Accomplished

After a day or so of doing things but not really getting much done, I sat down and wrote two new book reviews today. I also uploaded four or five reviews that I’d written for Wyntergreene but hadn’t added to the Read page of my site yet. (Those would be Progressive Witchcraft (thumbs up), Witch’s Familiar (thumbs down), Order of the Phoenix (thumbs up, of course — a year late, but finally uploaded!), Voices From the Pagan Census (undecided), Philosophy of Wicca (thumbs down), and Rites of Worship (thumbs up).)

So I’ve finished the reviews of Healing Magic and Advanced Witchcraft, and voila, simply because I’ve gotten writing down on paper (in pixels?) I feel satisfied. This is a problem with defining yourself as a writer: if you don’t write, you feel like a failure. Even rationalising reading as research doesn’t completely cut it. Deep inside, you still feel like you’re making excuses for the fact that you didn’t write.

However, all that has been swept away! I am a writer once more, with eight hundred new words to my name. (Not a stellar harvest today, but it’s eight hundred more than I had this morning.)

The Best-Laid Plans of Mice and Authors

I finished my new ritual dress last night, and, naturally, I’m unhappy with it. The lack of sleeve/bodice stretch is a bit inhibiting, and the errors hidden inside it are driving me mad. If I stand, I look good, but if I have to move around or lift my arms, I’m sunk. And the fabric I chose is nice and light, yes, but it’s so light that it doesn’t hang correctly. So, as the original fabric only cost me fifty cents a meter (I love sales!), and the construction only took about ten hours, I decided I’d head up to the fabric district on St Hubert street today, and get some black linen to do it over again with all the pitfalls firmly in mind and plans in place to pass them without disaster. And maybe I would stop by L’Esplumoir‘s new location (conveniently located in the fabric district!) and poke around. (You can dye natural-colour linen black, you know. Yes indeed. Actually, you can dye any pale colour to black. And dark colors too, but there will be a slight tint of the original colour to the final black, which is kind of neat. And if you factor in the cost of fabric, notions, and time spent on the project, well, personal energy invested in the ritual vestment aside, the cost is often equivalent.) Besides, there’s a package I have to go pick up at the little postal outlet in Monkland village that I could get on the way home.

I went on-line to check the new address of the shop before I left, and I thought I’d check my e-mail too. And thus, the best-laid plans…

The first half of my manuscript was sent back to me this morning for edits and rewrites, with a return deadline of noon on Friday.

It’s not the end of the world; so far there’s a lot of good encouraging stuff in feedback, and the edits are easy and far fewer than the other manuscripts I’ve edited. I have just over forty-eight hours to do two hundred pages. I should be fine — more than fine, actually. If I get enough done, I might go out to the fabric district tomorrow morning. And it’s a good thing I checked, otherwise I’d be in a bad position for editing it on time.

So I’ve put the first Moulin Rouge CD on, made myself a strongish cup of Cherry Vanilla tea, and to work I go. I think Mission: Impossible 2 is next. And likely The Hours will make an appearance later on.

In Which the Prodigal Returns, to Mixed Reception

We arrived home through six hours of storms and mind-numbing boredom at around seven last night. While I was gone, HRH stained the kitchen cabinets, moved some smaller pieces of furniture around, and raised the bed by about a foot to create box storage beneath it. No major crises occured in my absence, which is always a relief. Maggie punished my eleven-day absence by ignoring me until bedtime. Nixie wouldn’t leave me alone, and even talked to me with chirps and tiny meows. Cricket lay on the dining room table and sulked at the window, through which she wriggled to the Great Outdoors sometime over the week, so now having tasted freedom she is no longer satisfied with the small world known as Home, let alone the presence of her mother figure.

My day is scheduled already: I’ve caught up on e-mails, sent out a couple of queries, and now I’ll sit down with a pile of books and select new readings for the first level of students at CMS, as so much has gone out of print recently. Apparently reading selections from other teachers have been thin to non-existant, so I have a lot of work ahead of me. It was a lovely vacation, with lots of sleep and books and food, but now I’m back in the sweltering humidity and the dust kittens of home. Back to… whatever it is that I do when I’m not writing a book. Goodness. I just may have forgotten what that is.

Catch-Up

Okay — yesterday it was the killer migraine that hit me minutes after we arrived at my parents’ friends’ place for dinner (Dad drove me home, bless him), the day before was a day trip to Stratford, and today was here and there. Otherwise I’d’ve been posting the long reflective entries I’ve been composing in my head for the past seventy-two hours. Honest.
 
I was at the Royal Botanical Gardens for an hour on Tuesday morning, amusing myself in the greenhouse whilst my parents attended a meeting in Conference Room Two (which really ought to have been called TROT-2, but no one would understand the reference except a handful of people back home, so I withheld it). I took reams of notes to turn into a substantial post on herbs and the joys of being alone in huge glass buildings with over two hundred invisible anoles, which I still might do eventually, but I’m just too tired at the moment. (And don’t believe the website write-up; it was humid, not cool and dry.) Besides, I want to get back to Fool’s Fate, which is stunningly fabulous. I finished I, Elizabeth the night I had my migraine, after I’d taken two extra-strength Advil and slept for two hours (oops – there’s a max of three per day, so no wonder it knocked me out). Damned good. Pre-dates the film Elizabeth (you know, that Cate Blanchett one), and really foreshadows the film well in tone, speech, and scene. It was nice to finally hit a book which took more than two hours to read from start to finish.
 
Mum and I saw Guys and Dolls at Stratford, which came as a bit of a culture shock, since I’d been reading I, Elizabeth, and after having experienced so much Elizabethan theatre in the town over the years I always associate Shakespeare plays with a Stratford trip. (And that’s Stratford, ON for my American readers. I can’t quite envision Stratford-Upon-Avon, UK doing Frank Loesser musicals. And t!, the Noretta Motel finally as a new sign.) The show was enjoyable, in spite of Cynthia Dale doing a monotone performance of Sarah Brown. Sarah Brown should be earnest and perky. Cynthia Dale was lukewarm and lifeless. (Which she has apparently been in the past five years she’s been appearing at Stratford. Why do they keep casting her?)  Sheila McCarthy as Adelaide more than made up for the time Dale was onstage, though, and every other lead was phenomenal, paticularly Geordie Johnson as Nathan Detroit. (BTW, Tal, my mother and I have decided that sometime in your life, you have to play Nicely-Nicely Johnson. Just thought you’d like to know.) The choreography to the Gamblers’ Ballet was as impressive as the dancing itself. It’s rare to find a show where the men’s chorus has the knock-out dance numbers; in fact, it’s rare to find a show with practically no female chorus. This ballet had been choreographed so that while there were a dozen guys onstage, there were five different moves going on simultaneously — by two or three men in completely different places. It made for a dynamic overall presentation of the number, seeing that three men were dancing the same steps, but they were each dancing next to someone whose steps were totally different, and next to that second man there was yet someone else dancing something again different. For those of you who know the Festival Theatre, you know that the thrust stage is almost square, but still not huge; group numbers have to be really carefully sequenced. The choreography throughout the entire show was a triumph over space.
 
But every time I think of Cynthia Dale in the show, I think of a cold fish dressed as a Salvation Army sergeant. She would just stand and sing — no emotion, nothing. And in a larger-than-life show like Guys and Dolls, particularly when your co-star is very expressive, that just doesn’t cut it. I rather meanly evaluated her performance and almost said to my mother than I could have done better (and no lie, her singing is about my level of skill, and the gods know I can act better than she does), but I didn’t. If I believed in Purgatory, I’m sure I’d have shaved a few years off.
 
Time to go curl up and read again.

Shrek 2

Just as good, but different, and much fun. Having seen MI2 only a couple of weeks ago meant that I was the one laughing louder than anyone else in the theatre at the scene with Pinocchio descending into the dungeon from the roof of the tower. And Puss is my newest fave Antonio Banderas part. I kept hoping it was his voice. I love trying to figure out voice actors in any animated film, and although my guess was Banderas for Puss, and my mum picked out Rupert Everett as Charming right away, I missed John Cleese as well as Julie Andrews of all people. All in all, great pacing, nice new designs, and a solid story that doesn’t rehash or cheapen the first.

Oh, and I saw a full-length preview for The Incredibles. What a riot. But then, superhero humour amuses me.

From the Wilds of Southern Ontario

So here I am in lovely Oakville, enjoying moderate temperatures which force me inside at about five-thirty PM because it’s too chilly. I also have to put socks on inside because the tile floor is too cold.

I ain’t complaining. Love it.

Those who are familiar with my mum’s culinary abilities will sigh when I tell you that I’ve already had mussels, grilled salmon marinated in maple syrup and orange juice, baby spinach and mushroom salad with a wonderful cream dressing, almond pound cake, those fabulous Spice Cookies Which Emphatically Fail to Suck, and last night’s delicate bolognese sauce on pasta. Plus my dad’s homemade Sauvignon Blanc.

It’s good to be fed by the parental units. Oh, yes. And I’ve only been here a day and a half.

I’ve also already read two books, a pile of magazines, visited old family friends, and dropped two rings off to be sized. Today, all three of us are going to see Shrek 2, because taking your thirty-three year old child to an animated feature still counts.

Even More Joy

Last night was my early birthday thing at Hurley’s, our favourite pub for this sort of thing. There were so many people that we had to move from our regular fireside spot into the big room on the other side. And that was before everyone had arrived.

They gave me a sewing machine. It has a cover. I love it. I wonder if Debra knew about this before she agreed to lend me hers. If so, she must have been snickering up her sleeve. (Debra, your machine will be dropped off at the store by HRH sometime this coming week, seeing as how I really don’t need two here, particularly when I’m not present to use either of them.) I’m looking forward to making ritual dresses, robes, a banner, doll clothes, and a handfasting dress with it. And those are only the currently scheduled projects. Who knows what else I’ll come up with? I love you all for enabling my sewing addiction.

We had a blast, as we always do. I made a mushy speech about how everyone has supported me over the past six months and toasted them, but thanks must be given again: Thank you, thank you, thank you, everyone, for making it such a wonderful evening! (Even Tal, who made snarky comments about HRH and I walking in ten minutes after I said I’d be there. (HRH had a long day at the office.) I pointed out that I wasn’t late, I was five days early for my actual birthday. He yielded.)

This afternoon I’m flying out to spend a week and a half with my parents, so updates will be less frequent. Apparently Scott and HRH are already planning while-the-cat’s-away activities, since Ceri will be gone too. Whatever happens, it will probably involve bottles of Keith’s and an Xbox.