For those who are concerned as a result of my anxiety expressed in recent entries, I heard yesterday evening that my press packet and the NDA arrived in Massachussets safely last Thursday, but my contact had been called out of town on business.
And they’re talking about presenting my contract to the publishing board concurrent with the authors’ contracts.
It’s hard to see through the murk of my disbelief, but I think this is actually happening…
I realise that I haven’t ranted about my latest “it’s not fair” experience. Prepare for Rant Mode.
Now that I’ve started wearing my glasses 95% of the time, I’ve discovered that one pair is not enough. Why? Because if I take them off at night they get left on the bedside table when I toddle off to work the next morning, or by the computer, or — once — beside the computer at work.
So! Responsible Autumn locates her last set of frames and resolves to have up-to-date lenses made for them. She shops around.
My prescription isn’t that high, and I don’t need progressive lenses or bifocals or anything fancy. All I need is basic lenses with anti-glare so my computer screen doesn’t slay my vision.
I’m still going to have to pay between $160 and $210 for a new set of lenses.
Slowly it penetrated into my stunned brain and I remembered why I usually buy new frames as well. It’s not that much more expensive.
I ranted at my husband for a while, and then decided that I’d look into contact lenses. If I have to be wearing the things most of the time anyway, I might as well. I’ll need an optometrist appointment, but they might end up being cheaper. And I certainly won’t leave them in odd places. Then my current glasses become my back-up vision enhancers.
It’s worth a try. It might be hopeless, but at least I’ll know.
I think the most frustrating aspect of the situation is that I’m trying to be responsible by having a second pair with me. It’s akin to replacing socks with holes, or buying new underwear: it shouldn’t be this expensive.
So when I found this quiz on Roo’s blog this morning I took it, and now I feel much better, because it’s really me.
My inner child is ten years old!
The adult world is pretty irrelevant to me. Whether
I’m off on my bicycle (or pony) exploring, lost
in a good book, or giggling with my best
friend, I live in a world apart, one full of
adventure and wonder and other stuff adults
don’t understand.
How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla
Oh. My. God.
Neil Gaiman sent me my next story assignment.
No, I don’t mean I’ve been inspired by something he wrote or a quote on his blog. Nothing so abstract.
There was a postcard in my mailbox this afternoon from Neil Gaiman. And he used green ink in his fountain pen.
The address part was, of course, filled in with Ceri’s neat printing. I expect that this is her delicious secret. I thought that it had something to do with Scott’s birthday, but apparently not.
I’m rather stunned.
Oh, the topic?
A line of people that never ends…
Which, when you think about it, really sums up the moment in which it was written.
Despite my quiet monitor, dual hard drives and new cordless ergonomic keyboard, I’m still having anti-computer issues, so here’s a summary of Life in General:
Regarding that ergo keyboard: things are just a bit off, and I keep hitting odd buttons, which creates situations where I have to go back and delete or re-type. My arms and shoulders are happy, though.
I think the US publisher still hasn’t received my press packet and NDA. I’m mildly stressed, and I can’t locate the tracking tag that the post office gave me. My desk has been cleaned a couple of times, new equipment has been installed, and the apartment has been thrown into turmoil twice over the last week for various reasons, so it could be anywhere (except the places I’ve looked, apparently), or even thrown out.
My doctor is so pleased with how things are going that I no longer have to see her monthly. We’re down to quarterly.
For some reason, now that the weather is tolerable, my allergies are hitting hard and fast. Thank the gods for Reactin.
The Kim Possible DVD contains four episodes only. Fortunately they were all episodes I hadn’t seen, so I loved it from start to finish. I’ve enjoyed later episodes from the first season more, though.
The new electric baseboard heaters were finally installed yesterday. The wire they used is bright red, to indicate that it’s a live wire. The landlady wanted the cheapest and fastest labour possible, so the wire is just stapled to the ceiling as opposed to set behind baseboards or fished through the ceiling. It looks terrible, and the electrician agrees. We call them our apartment go-fast stripes.
First classes of all three sessions went well over the weekend. It feels like we’re right back in the swing of things, as if we never had a summer break.
I found two second-hand books I’d been looking for. Hurrah!
Enough!
Warning: This Blog About To Be Under Construction.
(Muah-hah-hah!)
Whenever I please myself with a word count, I head on over to Caitlin R Kiernan’s log of her latest novel endeavour. I haven’t written lately, so I haven’t checked it out, but today I came across a lot of interesting posts (Caitlin is nothing if not interesting). The one that made me go “hmm”, however, is this one about how socially acceptable is a grown adult’s playing of “let’s pretend” (which is essentially what authors do in their heads). She contrasts it with role-playing, an activity which the majority of adults scoff at.
Er. It’s the same thing. Imaginative adults play let’s pretend all the time. Let’s pretend that light isn’t red, let’s pretend you’re a naughty schoolgirl, let’s pretend that bill says I owe much less than I actually do. Authors of all genres of fiction (and some non-fiction) play a version of let’s pretend and then write it down.
Caitlin blows the whistle on it, as well as costuming (another interest we share), and what she calls The Cult of Sports. Go. Read.
I’ve been off writing for a while now, which has been discouraging. Several times a week I say to myself, “I feel like writing,” but I don’t actually want to be involved in the physical act of bashing out a story. I want to feel like I feel when I’m writing, but I don’t want to write. (Does that make sense? I think it does.)
I believe that it has a lot to do with the amount of output I produced over the last twelve months, which is staggering when I look back on it. I’ve pinned down a couple of reasons which explain the reluctance to sit down and re-engage, and they all make sense — as mentioned earlier, my unintentional end-of-novel move in The Great Canadian Novel pretty much sent the “done” signal to my brain, and I’ve had an anti-computer kick going on as well — but overall, I think I just needed a break.
I’ve been mutinously reluctant to open my laptop again, so I did what I used to do: I went out and bought a new notebook with lovely smooth pages, and a new fine black ballpoint pen. I sat down with my lovely wooden lap desk that Ceri bought me three months ago, and did what I’ve been telling her to do all summer… I just started writing. And yes, the first words were “I don’t want to write”, followed closely by “none of my stories interest me”, and “maybe I should do this”, then by “or hey, yeah that” — and bang, all of a sudden there were 1,200 words of the lapsed Trinity dream story, which has acquired a working title of Crossroad.
So. I’m feeling much better about things. I even made notes on what can come next when I return to it.
Ladies, gentlemen and honoured others: she’s back.