Category Archives: Diary

Time

I slept really well last night, and woke up to discover that it was 6.58 AM, and HRH’s alarm hadn’t gone off. It actually hadn’t not gone off, it was set for the proper time, but when our power went out yesterday morning and I reset the clocks, I remember making sure that I set it to the AM time. Although now I have a nibbling suspicion that when I went back to check it, I reset it again to the opposite of what it was, assuming that I had forgotten to do so in the first place.

All’s well, though; HRH woke up just fine, got ready and left in twenty minutes, plenty of time to pick up his passenger at 7.30. I made tea and brought the Sense & Sensibility Screenplay to bed with me, read it from start to finish, and then Emma Thompson’s simply killing film diaries which follow it. The only film I ever worked on was lots of waiting about and not knowing what was happening next, cutting lines left right and centre, and bagels (don’t ask), with no fun or chumminess at all. When I’d done reading I felt like popping in the Pride & Prejudice DVDs, although that would cut severely into the writing jam this afternoon.

It’s the last writing jam for a while, as most of us are here and there over the summer, and one will be working a six-month contract as of any day now. We ought to come up with goals or schedules and check up on one another anyway. E-mail each other work, and such.

Difficult to remember that I’m flying out to Hamilton on Thursday afternoon. I ought to put neon asterisks around the note on the calendar.

Autumn, the Human Barometer

Over the past twenty-four hours I have been driven slowly mad by the changing air pressure as mirrored by my sinus cavities.

Dear gods, yes — the pressure outside changes as the mini-fronts come through, an ice-pick suddenly appears digging deep into my cranium from one of the many lovely little sinus chambers. I often don’t realise it until I find myself attempting to curl my fingers through my skin and into said sinus cavity to release the pressure. Yesterday, I moved inside and outside my in-laws’ house a dozen times seeking relief as the pressure subtly shifted by a kPa or two.

They grilled shrimp for my birthday. Wasn’t that a wonderful treat? And they gave me a lovely leatherbound blank book, with a nifty red owl bookmark that will travel with me to Toronto later this week.

My newfound need for naps illustrates how miserable sleeping at night in Montreal has become, now that it’s summer again. HRH put the air conditioner in, but I still seem to sleep better in the afternoons. I also attribute my odd need to sleep so much to a reflection of how mentally exhausted I am after producing a polished book in ten weeks.

I’ve read two books since I finished the manuscript: Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Ancestors of Avalon by Diana Paxson (which was only so-so; I should have waited for the trade paperback), and The Mistress of Spices by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (which was absolutely marvellous magical realism). I’m halfway through Rebecca Wells’ Little Altars Everywhere at the moment, which is possibly even better than Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (although equally disturbing in places). Today I’ll finish two book reviews and send them off to the magazine for which I write them.

Words for thought, from t!‘s interview with the Suffix9 zine:
“Regrets are for people who don’t understand their present beauty.”

Civil Right, Civic Duty

I have exercised my civil right and performed my duty as a citizen, and I have voted. Was anyone else surprised to find names they’d never seen before on their ballot? There were nine parties listed on mine, four of which I’d never even known existed in my riding.

It’s such a small thing – unfolding a piece of paper, picking up a small unassuming pencil, making an X in a white circle, and refolding it. So calm, as opposed to the emotional responses that watching political speechs evokes.

Speaking of emotional — if I have to deal with one more crisis arising from people assuming things, I will slice my wrists open or something equally inane.

New Day

I took yesterday off — I didn’t crack open the laptop or a reference book all day. I severely needed the time away from the manuscript; I think I broke myself on Tuesday. I couldn’t string enough words together to make a coherent sentence yesterday, and it was a bit of an Eeyore day as well.

So I read all of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix instead, and yet again, for the third time, I read it too fast and didn’t allow the story to breathe properly.

Orchestra was okay, not spectacular but okay, and I slept well (although I dreamed of washing one of my Wicca books in Debra’s washing machine, because the pages had begun to go a bit yellow with age). I awoke to HRH sitting on the edge of the bed to say goodbye (yes, he’s putting in a half-day today). We talked politics for about fifteen minutes, then he got up to go to work. “Oh, sure,” I said, “talk sweet politics to me and then just leave.” “Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” he smirked, and off he went.

I so love the fact that my husband can now make literary jokes.

In other news, I sat down to finally reserve my plane ticket to Hamilton, and found to my utter disgust that with taxes and fees etc., the cost of the ticket has doubled. So I’m in the process of checking out the cost of train tickets; I can switch to the GO train in Toronto and meet my parents in Oakville, and it will probably be cheaper. (Update: Yup. Cheaper. Plus I’d get there earlier in the day, and it’s a ten-minute round trip to pick me up instead of an hour.)

I’m bright-eyed and busy-tailed, and I’m determined to write at least two thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven words today.

Urg

Woke up at six-thirty this morning, and half an hour later I had an upset stomach. And I still do.

I hate stupid little things like upset stomachs. They’re minor, and yet they sap all your energy. I almost wish that I hadn’t done so well yesterday, because now there’s a little voice in the back of my head suggesting that I curl up under an afghan with a cat as a living hot water bottle, and not write, because I’m ahead of schedule. That voice is currently engaged in a knock-down fight with my work-ethic voice and my panicked I’ll-Never-Get-It-Done-In-Time voice, who are both attempting to repress it.

While that’s being decided, I’m going to curl up with tea and perhaps read.

Forthcoming

I was explaining to HRH today that my life pretty much doesn’t exist after July 1. It’s not that I’m booked, it’s just that I’m so focused on July 1 being the deadline for the manuscript, plus my parents will be in town, and I’ll be doing the final concert of the season that night (which is the only reason I will not be downtown at the Jazz Festival listening to Susie Arioli) that it’s the Big Thing I’m Planning For. Only an e-mail from Debra the other day reminded me that I’m camping July 2-5 at Awakening Isis (which was fortunate). It was while I was relating this to him that I realised that I haven’t yet had a birthday this year.

“Yes,” said HRH. “Any idea what you want? People are starting to ask.”

Know what I want? I can’t even remember what day it is, let alone conceive of celebrating the joyous anniversary of my thirty-third year on the planet. And he wants gift suggestions?

So I’ve updated the wish list, for those who need to know. And I s’pose there ought to be a pub night. Don’t ask me when until after July 1, though, okay? Please?