Screaming

Pardon me while I hyperventilate – I just sent my CV off to a big US publisher for the position of consultant on a new line of New Age titles. I was recommended.

You can’t hear it, but I’m screaming inside.

It took me an hour to concoct a smooth, sleek, confident, I-Am-The-Uber-Consultant cover letter.

I hate cover letters.

This cover letter rocks.

Yes, I’m still screaming. I’m partly freaked, partly excited.

So if you could all cross your toes or light your candles or call on your personal concept of Deity, or cash in favours with whomever to help me keep sane, I’d appreciate it.

(And this literally on the same day that I wrote my first-ever resignation letter for the badly managed pseudo-magazine I was involved in. There is no such thing as synchronicity. None at all.)

Intelligent TV Forbidden

Warning: sputtering rant ahead.

Caitlin says:

According to [Bonnie Hammer, Executive Vice President and General Manager of the Sci-Fi Channel], Farscape failed because it expected too much from the viewer.

Excuse me? Oh, heaven forbid that a creative team actually challenge the audience. Good gods, folks, this is how we push the envelope, evolve, mature – we challenge people!

Oh, wait. Sorry. I forgot. TV isn’t art, according to most channel execs. It’s money and ratings. Silly me. You’re not supposed to think when you switch on the tube; you’re supposed to leave the brain at the door and allow your eyes to glaze.

Whatever came over me?

(As an aside: Space gave me a birthday present by beginning the entire Farscape saga from episode one. I’ve seen three episodes, and I am of the opinion it’s one of, if not the, smartest thing(s) on TV. No wonder it was cancelled. But then, I’m one of those queer people in the minority that wants to use her brain while being entertained.)

CD Joy

I just experienced the most delicious shiver down my spine.

While I’ve been looking forward to The Return of the King this winter, I somehow completely overlooked the fact that the third installment in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings film epic means a Return of the King soundtrack from Howard Shore.

I’d better start making room on my CD shelves now.

Right Idea, Wrong Time

Somewhere in the murky depths of my muzzy psyche (made thicker by adjusting to new medication) I realised that I accidentally ended the Great Canadian Novel a month or so ago, four chapters before I ought to have ended it. By having my protagonist conquer a life-long obstacle, I really can’t go any further; everything would be anti-climactic.

This explains my complete and utter disinterest in the storyline for the past while. Now that I’ve figured it out, I can move the Significant Triumph out of the narrative and into a file marked “Grand Finale”, and get on with creating four new chapters exploring other things leading up to it. I had the right idea, just at the wrong time.

Speaking of timing… maybe I ought not to be reading biographies of crippled and/or unstable artists and writers as I come out of a stretch of working with an osteopath to make friends with my spine again and trying to pull things together after a burn-out. Dash it all, though, Frida Kahlo and Virginia Woolf are just so fascinating.

As The Dust Settles

Well… I believe that the domestic upheaval has finally come to an end: the dust has settled, and all the scratches on the floor have been touched up with orange oil.

The original plans I had for today got tossed out the back door when the plumber showed up this morning to remove the radiators from our 1940s-era building. It was a two-step process: the plumber and our concierge had to move furniture with me so that the radiators were accessible, in order to cut the old pipes and unscrew them from the floors. Then I had to wait two hours for the scrap guys to come in with their dolly to remove the cast iron behemoths from where they lay scattered over my nice clean floors, one by one.

When it was all over, I surveyed the damage. Gaping holes in the walls where heat and time have eaten away the plaster and tar paper. Huge holes in the floor. Scratches along our lovely hardwood from stones in the dolly wheels and where they dragged the radiators to the dolly. Filthy footprints everywhere, and handprints to match.

Things have finally been set back to rights. I’ve swept up the dirt of countless past tenants from where it had been wedged behind the radiators (including rocks, balls, and a dog toy), washed the floors, wiped the walls, rearranged what furniture I could on my own. I found the cats in their creative hiding spots. (Did you know that the kittens have found a way to get into our box spring?) Then I had a shower to clean the grime off my hands and bare feet. Unfortunately, that’s not the end of it: somewhere between now and October, electric baseboard heaters have to be installed.

The good news is that while I was caught at home, I wrote a short story. At least I used my time well.