Owls' Court

How to Screen Dates With Books

How to Screen Dates With Books by Jessa Crispin.

Featuring the following all-too-recognisable warning:

Also, reading comic books in public is a good way to attract boys. However, you may also have to put up with sexist geek boys saying things like, "You're a girl! And you're reading a comic!" Luckily their heads will probably explode after a minute or so, leaving the area clear for a real catch.

If only that were true. Alas.

Have I mentioned recently that I worked four years in this city's only F/SF book and comic shop?

On Saturday night, a little

On Saturday night, a little bird spoke to me for a moment about a proposed collaboration first suggested to me last September. In true creative fashion, I have since been overwhelmed by a slew of ideas and visions regarding this proposed collaboration, but I have nothing to hang them on, not even a definite go-ahead on the project. I've just been scribbling them down in note form so far. Most will likely end up unused, but they can always find an alternate life in a story somewhere I suppose, said by other characters in other situations.

I use the phrase "in true creative fashion" because in my experience, when an idea is proposed or is conceived, I find the first few days staggeringly obsessive. I dream about the topic; I find myself looking at the world as if I were one or several of the characters; I research on-line and in books and wrap my head around as much information as I can, whether I knew something originally or not. Many of the artists I know operate in a similar fashion. We become enraptured with a new idea and explore it as deeply and as broadly as we can, sometimes to the exclusion of other projects. No, it's not healthy; we know that. It's just so hard to fight that first-love burst of energy that fills us and keeps us going, partial nourishment and a partial drug, too.

On a completely different note, I found black sandals to go with my new black concert dress.

Birthday and Rehearsals

At last - cooler temperatures. Hurrah! I slept the night through and I'm extremely pleased.

We had a three-hour orchestra rehearsal yesterday afternoon, and wow, what a workout. By the end I was making clumsy mistakes in passages that I know I've flawlessly played through before. I also know there are a couple of spots that I really ought to practice today until my fingers bleed. Well, maybe not that far, but at least until muscle memory ensures that I can play them without tripping up tomorrow night.

And on the birthday front, I not only have chocolate liquer (mmm) and a new cyclamen plant, but thanks to a united effort from MLG, Annika and Tara, I am now the proud owner of a Tara Bisset original! It's a mirror with a wide frame, which features painted owls something like those at the Dance on the Sidewalk! web site, but with colours chosen especially for me. Owlies! Yay! They now hang by my front door, reminding me to smile and dance every time I leave to go out into world, and when I come home, too.

Last Day of Teaching

This morning will be the last class to the current session of the eighteen-week intro course to alternative religions that I teach. (For those of you who are neo-Pagan and have a Thing About Payment For Anything Religion-Related, this is a survey course of info on various world religions, and does not teach craft itself. You have no idea how tired I am of explaining this.) This set of students is particularly special, and I'll miss them. We won't losing touch, of course; I'll just miss hearing their opinions and thoughts, and watching them make connections between various mythologies and modes of thought from different cultures at different points in history.

I think that's one of the most special parts of teaching: seeing the dots being connected, the illumination spreading across an individual's face as s/he fits a bit of information into his/her world view.

It's not for everyone, of course. There are hard parts too. Students come to you with problems, seeking guidance or the input of someone more experienced, and there are times where I freeze up and wonder how I got to this particular point, when I was assigned the position of mentor. What if the support I give is inadequate? What if I mistakenly point someone in the wrong direction? I know, I know; everyone has free will, and is responsible for their own choices. When someone places you in a position of trust, however, there's a lot of responsibility that goes with it. (I have a feeling that very statement indicates an unlikelihood of misleading anyone; I take this too seriously. And somewhere out there, I know that MLG is saying, "You see? And you claim that you're not a leader!") Teaching is rewarding as well. I learn things from my students too - new information, new ways of connecting A and C (who says you have to go via B?), new points of view and opinions that in turn connect into my own web of thought and belief.

So, today's the last class. I'm not quite sure how we got here so quickly, but there you are. I'm a little down about it.

Now I have to figure out how I'm to pick up groceries for tonight's dinner, a parcel at the post office, and a birthday present, and still carry all my teaching textbooks, since my husband has taken the car to work today. And of course, my tea has gone cold.

I completely, completely forgot that

I completely, completely forgot that I have birthday coming up in a couple of weeks. I only remembered yesterday when, frustrated with not being able to find black sandals with a sane heel, I decided to buy the new Holly Cole CD and had it in my hands when I realised that I'd mentioned I wanted it in public, on my web log, and with a birthday approaching, I couldn't safely purchase it.

I knew I had a birthday coming up. I mean, we've been discussing the absence of people whom I'd like to count among those to celebrate with, and my birthday is exactly two weeks after my oldest friend's birthday (mmm, Thai food), and my students have planned a birthday outing for me as well... but it basically slipped my everyday conscious mind.

I'm certain I would have remembered in a rush when I flipped the calendar to July. Perhaps it's my current obsession with the July 1 concert that's taking up room that would otherwise be gleefully chanting, "It's going to be my birth-day, it's going to be my birth-day..."

To all intents and purposes, I forgot my own birthday. Cake, presents, loved ones.

This is a sign of old age, isn't it.

Concert Prep

Hot.

Okay, give me a break; I'm not exactly working at full power, here. Sure, Montrealers are used to 35 degree Celsius temperatures that feel like 45 degrees thanks to the humidex factor (for those of you who still work on the Farenheit system, that's something like 95 degrees and 113 degrees), but we usually work up to it slowly over a month. This week it was bang, suddenly hot and humid, with temperatures ten degrees over the average seasonal. Looks like things will cool off nicely over the next few days, though, with a beautiful clear Canada Day of about 25 degrees.

Speaking of Canada Day, yes, it's concert-plugging time! Please note that the concert actually begins at 8 PM, and yes, it's free. It's being held at St Joachim Church in Pointe-Claire Village, below the Lakeshore, right on the waterfront; you can take the 211 bus from Lionel-Groulx metro. Free classical music! Culture! And as a bonus, the fireworks are scheduled for ten PM, right after we finish, and the church steps are a glorious spot from which to watch them.

I found a lovely black linen sleeveless dress for summer concerts on sale yesterday. I might have confused the salesgirl by scouting around for a small stool while I had it on. What's the point of buying a concert dress if you're not certain it will allow you to hold the cello between your legs? The one I really liked, with a woven linen design along the v-neck and the hem, I had to put back because I couldn't set my feet far enough apart. The one I ended up with runs aclose second, though, and is elegant and understated. Now, of course, since I have a new black linen dress, I need dressy black sandals to go with it. I sense a trip to Angrignon Mall tomorrow...

Well. Wasn’t that not fun.

Well. Wasn’t that not fun.

You know, I really, really don’t want to go into detail, but that was the worst move I’ve ever been involved in. Being ill and missing three key people from our standard moving team which resulted in not all our stuff getting here was a large part of it, but the icing on the cake was having our phone line at the old place disconnected before 7 AM on March 1, and not having a phone line at all in the new place until 11 AM on March 4. Yes, that’s today. Gods bless the cheerful, accomplished and all-round-nice-guy Gilles Lavallée who came to double-check on the wiring after the first Bell technician came by yesterday and pronounced our entire apartment’s phone wiring dead, with the necessity of installing completely new wiring from the bottom up. Gilles found the sole live wire in the whole nest of ancient phone wires and reconnected us to the world.

I relapsed into bed with coughing and fever yesterday afternoon, and that’s where I’m headed again right after I take a warm bath. For those who are curious, having seen the three square feet we had to move around in here immediately post-move on Saturday afternoon, the place is three-quarters unpacked. Yes, I am a goddess. (Okay, the drive to restore order to my life probably contributed to my collapse again yesterday, but damn it, at least I have living space now.) This is officially a beautiful apartment. It will be even more beautiful without the pile of boxes in the dining room/office area, and when I have somewhere to put knives, forks, and spoons in the kitchen.

Okay. We’re here. That’s all I really needed to tell you. And that we didn’t have a phone for three days, so it’s not that we were ignoring you, we just, well, didn’t hear the phone ring. Not being connected and all.

Sigh. I’m going to take that bath now. And a handful of Advil, because I’m out of my wonder syrup that lets me sleep and not have a headache and stop coughing.

Woo! Just got mail! I

Woo! Just got mail!

I absolutely adore getting mail - real mail, tangible mail, the stuff you have to open your real live mailbox to take out in your actual hands.

Unfortunately, I also love books.

Yes, these two passions mean that BookFinder is one of my guilty indulgences. I've been terribly, terribly good for the past half-year, being on a very tight budget, but recently I remembered that I was supposed to prepare a Religion, Science & Magic lecture for mid-December, and the book someone had lent me, well, belonged to someone else, which meant that I couldn't mark it up as I wanted to. So, off to BookFinder I went, and ordered an ancient second-hand library-discard copy. It just arrived! Hurrah! However, in the meantime, various reschedulings mean that I will no longer in fact be teaching that class. Ah, the irony.

I still have a new book, though.

Two. Two posts, one long

Two. Two posts, one long and poetic, one the highlights of the poetic version. Gone. The first due to a power outage which rendered my work unrecoverable for some reason, the second due to Blogger screwing up.

It started out as such a lovely day, too.

It's too hot to sleep.

It's too hot to sleep.

It's too hot to read.

No one told me there was a new Holly Cole album out.

I keep having flashbacks to this afternoon's anxiety attack, the first in a very long time.

My back hurts. I have blisters on my little toes from my sandals.

I call a do-over on today.

Good Deed

When we got back from Angrignon Park last night (mosquito-bitten but content) we discovered a note on our door. The couple who owned the kitten got her back safe and sound. She had spent most of the day curled up on a pair of my husband's jeans, napping and purring. The man who came to pick her up said that there was something pretty special about her, and I have to agree.

So: a good deed. And I got to cuddle a tiny kitten again.

I finished HPOTP last night. Harry's not a kid any more; no sir. If/when they make this film, it will be phenomenal to watch. I'll have to read it again, but not for a week or so. To give myself a complete change of pace, I read Mort by Terry Pratchett. Next? Not sure; likely more academic stuff on Norse history and society.

Solstice and Kittens

I spent the day outside yesterday, from sunrise to welcome the Summer Solstice, to teaching my class outside, to a farewell picnic with good friends. It was glorious. I also received an early birthday present from Ceri, who's heading off to Halifax for two months: a lovely lap desk with a tilting top, pencil trays, and a basket for books and such on each side. It's the absolutely perfect height to rest my laptop on. I was so touched.

I woke up this morning around four AM, thinking I heard a cat in heat outside. I drowsed on and off for a couple of hours, hearing the cat, then fell asleep until a knock on our door just past eight woke me up. My husband answered it, and found our concierge with a tiny beige and grey mackerel kitten in his hands.

"This yours?" he asked. "It's been out in the hall for hours, crying."

When we told him no, he knocked on other doors to try to find where it belonged, but no one answered. He came back to ask for a bit of kitten food; he was going to put it in an empty room downstairs and lock it until he came back tonight, but I said, "Well, it's so young; why don't we keep it in the bedroom if you're not going to be home? We have an extra litter box, and bowls, and I'll be home all day so if someone sees your sign they can come knock right then. I'm sure they're frantic."

Well, after a stern warning that under no circumstances was I to fall in love with this kitten, my husband allowed her in. It's now been five hours, and no one's come to claim her. She's adorable. She must have slipped out when someone came home late, or left really early. She's fearless, and not upset at all. Mind you, if I'd been alone in a hallway for hours, crying, I'd be in love with whoever gave me water and pats too.

And I'm just over halfway through Order of the Phoenix. I can't help reading it; it's so smoothly written, and things lead from one to another... but I so want to make it last.

Did I Miss the Sign?

Well. Apparently whoever's driving this thing knew a back way around that roadblock.

One of the two projects I'm editing/reviewing has been done. (And for the two of you who are wondering, I did the one I got first: the comic script.)

I've also written 1,600 words and have moved my Great Canadian Novel protagonist from the dead stop she was at to being in Europe. Blink, blink. I'm probably about as stunned as she is.

Back into the fray!

Caitlin says: I will sit

Caitlin says:

I will sit in this chair, in front of this iBook, until at least 5 pm. I may write. I may not. But I will spend the day sitting here in this chair in front of this iBook. Beads of blood may appear on my forehead. My back may ache. But I will sit here.

Stop trying to write, and frelling write.

I know it's that simple. I know it's that intricate.

Except today it's reviewing and editing other work, and I'm just staring at it and nothing's sinking in. Which is not at all the fault of the authors. The connection between my eyes and my brain appears to be under construction, and the route is closed until further notice.

It's roadwork season in Autumn's brain. Who says we don't reflect our physical environment?

HP:OotP Countdown

In honour of today being the last day before Order of the Phoenix Day (come on, you know that most of the world thinks of it that way instead of as the Summer Solstice!), here are a couple of intelligent Harry Potter links that I’ve been keeping my eye on:

The Leaky Cauldron

The Hogwarts Wire

From The Hogwarts Wire today:

Rowling: Occult accusations are 'utter garbage'
JK Rowling hates accusations that Harry Potter turns kids onto occult. "I think that's utter garbage," Rowling tells Katie Couric in an upcoming TV interview. "I absolutely do not believe in the occult, practice the occult. I've never ... I've met literally thousands of children now. Not one of them has said you've really turned me on to the occult. Now, I'm convinced that if that's what my books were doing, I would by now have met one child who would have come up to me, covered in pentagrams and said, 'Can we go and sacrifice a goat later together?'"

So there. Honestly.

Classics scholars will get a kick out of this one, posted on April 17, 2003:

Here comes Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis
Bloomsbury recently announced they will be publishing a Latin edition of The Philosopher's Stone. Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis comes out in hardcover this June along with a Welsh version. Harry Potter has been published in 40 languages already and Gaelic and Ancient Greek versions of the first edition should come out in 2004.

Both sites are great; they report a lot of the same articles, but with different spins. Despite the fact that both the above quotes come from the Wire, I actually prefer the Leaky Cauldron.

And is it just me, or does Harry look an awful lot like Tim Hunter on the US cover of Order of the Phoenix?

Grieg Is Benched

We were stuffed into the little music room last night, as the school auditorium where we usually rehearse was being used for graduation exercises. The heat was awful; there's little ventilation, and about forty musicians playing lively stuff.

A decent rehearsal overall; we got some bad news, though. The Grieg is being cut from the program. A wind player exclaimed in relief when it was announced, and my stand partner seemed approving. I was apparently the only one who was disappointed, and I was sitting right in front of the conductor. "We could do it if we had just two more weeks," I said. He smiled and shrugged at me, spreading his hands in a "no choice" sort of gesture. I love the Grieg, and I've worked really hard on it. Ah, well. We've been promised that it will be rescheduled, perhaps for our next concert in the fall.

I notice that it's raining. That might be my fault. I decided yesterday afternoon that it would be nice to have my husband home today. He hasn't come back yet, though; it probably won't be much longer, since it's hard to mow in the rain. Think of it this way: if it's raining now, maybe it will actually be sunny on the weekend for a change.

I'd Hire Me

I've just spent four hours designing a business card and a brochure for my writing services.

Damn, but I sound professional. I mean, I read my brochure, and I'd hire me. I need to tweak it a bit, though - I think I'll end up creating two versions, one for companies and one for individuals, so I can target my audience better rather than referring to one here and another there.

The best part? It has continuity with my web site and my web log through the use of colour and the owl motif.

The almost-as-best part: this counts as writing. t! challenged me to write an opinion piece today, but I think this rather slips in under the creative writing wire. Hire me! I'm confident, capable, and I can help you. The tricky part? Telling people they need help without making them think they’ve been accused of being incompetent.

Inspiration

When I'm feeling singularly uninspired, I meander about and look at what other writers think and feel about writing.

Jane Yolen is an author I've been reading since I was about eleven. On her For Writers page, she says that [t]he Muse is an ornery creature and rarely comes when called. She wears feathers in her hair and birkenstocks on her feet and is often out in the woods when you are home at your keyboard. Which is all too true.

She quotes Gene Fowler: Writing is easy: all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead. Of course, she goes on to point out that writing isn't agony, and the majority of the time I'd agree with her; I'm not one of those people who thinks that an artist has to suffer in order to create, or to be able to create, good art. Every once in a while, though, yes, it really does feel that hard. Yolen also quotes Roland Barthes: The author performs a function; the writer an activity. It suggests that an author has a job, but a writer is the job. (I don't remember ever reading anything so inspiring when I read Barthes a few years ago, but I might have missed something.)

However, the nicest thing on the page was this:

A writer has many successes:

Each new word captured.
Each completed sentence.
Each rounded paragraph leading into the next.
Each idea that sustains and then develops.
Each character who, like a wayward adolescent, leaves home and finds a life.
Each new metaphor that, like the exact error it is, some how works.
Each new book that ends--and so begins.

Selling the piece is only an exclamation point, a spot of punctuation.

Which is remarkably inspiring.

Writing Blocks

I somehow fell out of the writing habit about a week ago, and now I'm really facing a wall.

My darling husband, when I told him I'd need to go to France in order to keep writing the Great Canadian Novel with any sense of verisimilitude, offered to take me to Quebec City for a long weekend. It's the closest we can get to France. I was touched.

In the meantime, I've staring blankly at my laptop and feeling singularly uninspired. I scribbled down notes for four (yes, 4) short stories last week, but evidently they're not write-now stories.

I've gone back and done some rewriting and touch-ups and doodled some plans for future stuff to happen in various storylines, but overall, there hasn't been much concrete production. I re-read the substantial beginnings of an urban fantasy novella about dreams versus reality and I'd love to pick it up again, except the main character's name is Trinity. With the whole "What is the Matrix?" thing going on, no one will ever believe that I wrote half this novella six years ago. Just change the name, I hear some of you suggesting; and while on the surface that would seem to be a solution, for me (and likely many other writers) it's impossible. The character's name is Trinity. She opened a door in my mind one day after a long day of work and came in fully-formed, falling onto the sofa, practically asleep on her feet. It would be like asking you to change your next-door neighbour's name after living next to her for six years.

I'd say it's frustrating, but I don't have the energy to feel frustrated. Forlorn, yes. But not more than that.

Brain to Stomach: No.

I don't believe this.

I got up at seven. I ate breakfast (tea and a muffin - yes, that's a meal for me).

My stomach is now growling. It thinks it's lunchtime.

Argh!

Public Service Announcement

Is it too much to ask that people actually do a little bit of research before they post stuff on eBay?

If you’re selling costumes, listing something as RENAISSANCE / VICTORIAN / HIPPY (sic) when it’s a brand new sundress means that either you don’t know what you’re talking about, or you’re implying that your product evokes one or all of these keywords. The only thing that all three would have in common that I can think of is that they have full skirts.

No, wait, there’s a third option – you just don’t care. Or you assume that your potential clients are stupid.

I’m cranky. I was awoken rather rudely at 4.34 AM when a piece of heavy construction equipment trundled down our street, setting off car alarms as it passed. Then the cats woke up. Then my husband woke up and watched the morning news, which I heard very clearly through the pillow over my head.

I gave in, and got up.

The good thing is that it's sunny outside again, which means my mood ought to correspond shortly.

Best line in a work

Best line in a work of fiction that I've read in a while:

Hellboy. Oh, yes, amusing. Witty, sarcastic, well-researched, and full of the mythological, folkloric, and occult. Terribly good. It's taken me a while to discover it, but now that I have, wow.

Bookstores

So naturally now that I have a lovely big pile of books of and about Norse mythology, I've decided I'd rather be reading fiction.

This necessitated a spontaneous trip downtown to second-hand bookstores, where I found four (yes four) out-of-print fantasy titles, plus a Terry Pratchett book (who sells off their Pratchett?), and a nearly-new copy of a recently published book. Then as I wandered through Chapters with my notebook, taking down more titles to look for in second-hand shops, I came across a discounted hardcover edition of a title I'd noted down almost a year ago. Yay me.

What a gorgeous day; it was so nice to be strolling city streets. Everyone's in a much better mood come the beginning of summer. It won't last long, of course; soon everyone will moan about the humidity and the heat. Until then, however, I'll enjoy the sun and the smiles.

Diana Krall

I'm always impressed and approve of the courage it takes when someone admits that they were wrong, so I thought I'd extend the same courtesy to you all by taking this opportunity to tell you about today's discovery of my own error in judgement.

It's about Diana Krall.

I'm a jazz fan, particularly of big band and swing, Porter and Gershwin; I especially enjoy vocalists like Sarah Vaughn and Ella Fitzgerald. I heard a clip from a very early Diana Krall album a few years ago and hated it. The steadily increasing Krall-appreciation in Canada left a bad taste in my mouth.

Enter Chrysler. Yes, the car company.

Classy car commercials impress me as much as beer ads do not. The use of black and white film and jazz in the soundtrack grab me every time. I got sick of "The Look of Love" when these commercials first debuted on TV, but for the past month I've been clicking the mute function off when the new Pacifica ad runs, because I love the clip they use of "Charmed Life". ("Does she come with the car?" my father wanted to know when the first Krall Chrysler ads came out. Be glad you live in Canada, Dad; south of the border they use Celine Dion for a soundtrack.)

If I'm turning up the volume to listen to thirty seconds of car commercial soundtrack, I might as well admit to myself that I want to hear the whole song.

I turned to the Wide World of Web to find out which album contained "Charmed Life", and discovered that to my dismay it exists solely as a Canadian bonus track on the live album or Look of Love, which means that both are collectibles and priced accordingly, between forty and fifty dollars, even on Canadian sites.

I stopped by Future Shop to buy a non-moving part today, and on a whim I checked the CD section.

Look at that. Diana Krall, Live in Paris. With the Canadian bonus track "Charmed Life". And a pleasant price sticker that tells me it's priced at fifteen ninety-nine.

Score one for Autumn and Diana Krall.

I love this album. "Charmed Life" is even more fabulous in its full 2:48 minutes of glory. And she does a terrific cover of Joni Mitchell's "Case of You".

So, I freely admit that I was wrong. Diana Krall's great. I love her voice. I love her style. (Well, her current style; I might not be as enamoured of her earlier albums.) She's not Ella Fitzgerald, but she isn't trying to be. Plus, she's Canadian. Yay her.

I may not have bought a car as a result of those Chrysler ads, but I've discovered a new jazz pianist and vocalist. If anyone wants to surprise me with a PT Cruiser, however, I still won't say no. It has to have a DVD player in it, though, so I can play my new Diana Krall CD and pretend I'm in my own commercial.

Okay, I've been really good

Okay, I've been really good and I haven't said a single thing about the whole Air Canada situation.

I can hold my peace no longer. Allow me just this minor outburst:

Robert Milton says that Air Canada is going to lose about a billion dollars this year. He blames SARS.

Oh, sure; this has nothing to do with the accumulation of particularly horrible management of fleet and crew over the past ten years, or your lousy service, or your action of filing for bankrupty protection in the last fiscal quarter. It's all the fault of SARS.

Even if Toronto hadn't recently been the victim of world paranoia, you'd still be losing a billion dollars this year, Uncle Milty, because you're badly administrated.

I really hate it when people project blame, ignore facts, and refuse to take responsibility for their own actions.

All right. I'm done.

I will now proceed to think happy thoughts.

Blogger has a new interface.

Blogger has a new interface. After going through the entire process with that last post, my first impression is that I like it. At the moment it's not better or worse than the old one, it's just different.

The best part so far? After previewing your post, you hit the publish button, and a new screen replaces the old one. It says:

Do they know me, or what?

Bits and Pieces

Yesterday was good and bad for many reasons which I will not go into. I will summarise it all by mentioning the following highlights:

~ I work with the best gang of people any woman could work with. Anyone who gives me loonies to put into a parking meter so that I can keep hanging around on my day off, simply because I slept horribly and felt cranky but didn't want to be alone, is automatically nominated to demi-deity status in my world. Brenda, Tamu: you rock. And Dimitri, thanks for the tissues.

~ My husband finally got paid for the freelance work he did at Easter, which came right after I learned that my own little source of freelance income has indefinitely been put on hold, right on the verge of a nice new project to which I was looking forward to devoting ten to twenty hours a week. The gods taketh away, and the gods giveth.

~ I had chocolate mousse cake for dessert last night. Mmm.

~ And finally, at orchestra, I pulled off the Haydn with some sort of semi-capable style, and then proceeded to sight-read the Mozart with panache and 98% accuracy. Go me. For someone who hates Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and refuses to listen to it, I knew it pretty well. Then again, Mozart is so annoyingly perfect that I could have closed my eyes and played the cello line by prediction alone and still hit it dead on.

Looking at the writing I've been posting over at Owldaughter - Read, I've realised that I haven't written short fiction in about eight years. As I'll have more free time on my hands, I've decided to challenge myself to write one short story per week. I need to work on my ability to tell a story in 1,200 to 1,800 words alone. Besides, when I've finished a short story, it can be mailed off in submission somewhere, and maybe someday someone will even accept one.

At Tamu's direction, I'll also be working up a proposal for both my non-fiction work on alternative spirituality, as well as And By Many Other Names. I received a lecture on the necessity of selling oneself, a topic about which I've expressed my dismal and ineffectual flounderings before. She made it sound easier. Baby steps.

I see that I forgot to mention that I'm convinced the designs for the seagulls in Finding Nemo were lifted straight from Nick Park's brain. Consider it done.

Phrase of the day about which to chortle: The obligation to tell long stories is more terrible than you might imagine. Even Scheherazade might stumble. And she was a far better word whore than I. From Caitlin R. Kiernan, of course.

Heh. I stop into Indigo's

Heh. I stop into Indigo's Unique Snowflake now and again, but lately she's just been on a roll. Check her out.

And hold onto all those burningly deep philosophical musings, folks; someday Haloscan's host will get its act together enough that we'll have our commenting function back.

Finding Nemo

By the end of the afternoon I was in a full-out Mood: irritable, on the verge of angry tears for no reason, and the attention span of a cat I won’t mention out of respect to Catdom. So when my husband got home I told him that I wanted to go out, right now. I could see him try to sort through our options: it was five-thirty on a Monday night. Then I made an executive decision and told him that we were going to see Finding Nemo. And off we went.

Before we did, though, I stopped by the bank, put in the thirty-dollar cheque Champlain College had sent me for my guest lecturing services, and bought highlighters and a new blank notebook for research, because I’m two pages away from finishing the one I’ve got. That plus the definitely suspicious lack of highlighters in this house had certainly contributed to my Mood. So – a little bit of disposable income, plus new toys. Much better already.

Finding Nemo is a brilliant film. It’s a laugh-out-loud sort of movie, and laugh is what the adults in the audience – who outnumbered the kids – did with great frequency. I loved the designs, and I loved all the characters, although my favourites were the turtles (which should come as no surprise to those who have known me forever; I adore turtles. They just make me laugh, for some reason. These turtles in particular were designed to make people laugh, so I laughed twice as hard.). And I have come to a conclusion: Roman is a seagull with fur.

We also saw trailers for the next three upcoming animated films: Sinbad (which, of course, my husband is already swooning about), Brother Bear (which had our interest right away for its use of totems and shamanism – Disney, who’d’ve thunk it?); and, of course, The Incredibles. Pixar does superheroes. Can it get any better?

More Owldaughter Updates

More articles have been posted and linked over at Owldaughter's Read section, including the first chapter from Reconstructing the Past in the Academic Novel: The Concept of Nostalgia in Thatcher Britain. Yes, I know there are hordes of you out there who have been simply dying with impatience to read this magnum opus, and you've just been too shy to ask. Here's your chance for a taste.

It's hard to believe that I finished this just over three years ago. It's even harder to believe that I defended it successfully and it was accepted with only three minor changes. t! and I were chatting earlier about successes and accomplishments in our lives, and I continually forget about my thesis, or value it at much less that I ought to. Damn it, I have a bound hardcover book on my shelf with publication data in it, and the title on the cover in gold. I had to sign a release form for Her Majesty the Queen (that's Elizabeth, not my mother) granting her permission to store a copy in the National Library files. This is huge.

Plus I've written two novels, and have two more on the go. My writing accomplishments alone ought to reassure me that I've done some pretty impressive stuff in my first thirty-odd years.

Everyone has similar accomplishments under their belts - not necessarily theses or novels, but projects of significance that we would admire in anyone else except ourselves. So why don't we feel fulfilled?

Summer Birthdays

When I was a child, I was thankful to have a summer birthday. I was shy, and didn’t have very many friends; the thought of being chased and given birthday bumps, or having a parent come in with cake and juice, the way others did, terrified me.

Now that I’m an adult (and I think I can safely use that word, since I’m past thirty), I have about a dozen close friends, and having a summer birthday is a pain. Why? Because my friends, being adults with jobs and families, now go on vacation on and around my birthday. My big thirtieth birthday picnic was cancelled because of this; last year fell apart and ended up being a smattering of people at the pub; and now, this year, the same problem is cropping up. Even though I deliberately decided to plan for an earlier date to avoid the problem, it doesn’t matter; over half the people I wanted to ask will be unavailable or elsewhere.

I give up.

We made Skippy choose another birthday, because his fell too close to a major holiday and was inevitably swallowed up or forgotten. I’m beginning to think I ought to do the same thing.

Bitter? No. I’m honestly pleased that I have so many close friends who mean this much to me. Frustrated? You’re damned right. I finally get to the point where I want to host a party for myself, and I’m thwarted.

I give up.

A Fan

While I work at the desktop computer, my reduced-mobility husband is in a chair by the window reading the last two chapters of my Great Canadian Novel. Every once in a while, he laughs out loud. Just now, he giggled for a couple of minutes straight.

He may be biased, but it still makes me feel really good.

It's All About the Treats

My husband wrenched his back somehow, so his plans for the day fell apart. To cheer him up, I told him he could take me out to the West Island to dig through second-hand bookstores. He countered with getting home-made ice cream. It was a deal.

I didn't find any of the out-of-print books that I'm looking for - I'd rather find them around here than buy them second-hand over the Internet - but I did find three mysteries I've been reluctant to buy new that are on my to-read list. That plus the peanut butter-chocolate ice cream made it all worthwhile.

My migraine is back. Such

My migraine is back.

Such a dubious honour to see you again. Now leave.

Why is it that when I have a headache I crave chocolate and soda? I know it's just going to make it worse.

I'll be in a dark room waiting for story ideas. Bye.

In the Cello Zone

Last night's rehearsal couldn't have been more different from last week's train wreck. We were relaxed, precise, and we sounded like we knew what we were doing. I was particularly impressed with our rendition of Overture for an Unwritten Comedy; for a piece that's remarkably obscure, we sounded as if we'd heard it all our lives.

Last night I was in the cello zone - you know, that state of mind/body where the hands instinctively go where the correct sound will be produced without any conscious thought or deliberate movement. It's where most musicians want to be when they perform. That little corner of my mind which observes what I'm doing and provides a running commentary was stunned by my hands flying over the fingerboard, playing notes in places which if I'd stopped to think about I'd guess entirely wrong.

We also played the Carmen suite. I've seen Carmen and was thoroughly unimpressed; I cannot understand its popularity. I keep forgetting, though, how much I like the suite's music. Each time I think, "Oh, we're playing the Bizet," I experience a negative response... until we actually begin playing. I think I've been conditioned by last year's dreadful struggle with Bizet's L'Arlesienne suite. Bizet = oh no. I'm trying to break that.

For some reason, the piece I'm having the most trouble preparing for the July concert is Haydn's Military symphony. I adore Haydn; I always have. I've played a couple of his symphonies now, and I've enjoyed every one. This one, however, is nicknamed "Military" for a reason: it's written (and hence ought to be played) in very strict time. The rhythms are very staccatto. I have discovered that I prefer playing expressivo singing lines. Subdivision in strict time is my arch-nemesis. (That and tenor clef, but we won't go there.)

All in all, it was a wonderful night, and even though there was a graduation ceremony going on at the high school which meant I had to park six blocks away, it was a beautiful evening to walk in the dark with my cello on my back, gazing at the sliver of the crescent moon riding low in the western sky on a faint veil of cloud.

Life's pretty good.

Owldaughter Update

Wow. I just spent my afternoon formatting, coding, and finally uploading half of the articles I'd thought of putting on the Owldaughter - Read page.

I completely forgot about the chicken in the oven, though. I think it might be overdone.

But damn it, I've updated the colour style of the pages, and created a link for half the pieces I wanted to list. Go me!

I'm becoming nostalgic. Two of

I'm becoming nostalgic. Two of my acquaintances are getting/were married this year, and others are talking about it. I've been snooping through on-line photos of their wedding gear, dress fittings, and parties.

I'll have been married four years this September. It was an absolutely fantastic day. Seeing all those posts by others about preparing and the day itself, I'm getting slightly mopy and misty-eyed.

It sems unfair that we only get to do it once if we stay with the significant other we've married. I think we should throw ourselves more weddings. Not just anniversary parties - real weddings.

Heck, it would give we ladies an opportunity to wear our wedding dresses again. Maybe we ought to have a Bridal Party where everyone can wear their wedding finery. (I'm just imagining the photos - half a dozen brides gathered on a lawn somewhere. Wow!) We could all get together and rent a small hall or something, cater a meal, have a cake made, do the photograph thing...

And then pay to have the dresses cleaned and boxed again.

Oh well.

Fiction

I've been coding my articles to put up in the Read section of Daughter of Owls, and you know, I don't have a single piece of fiction that I feel comfortable posting publicly. This is not a good sign. I've been thinking about posting an excerpt from the half-finished Great Canadian Novel (officially 7/12 complete!), from my NaNo novel And By Many Other Names, and maybe that nameless fantasy thing I found on my laptop; but I haven't written short fiction in years. Oh, sure, there's that short story I wrote last week, but I realised a couple of days ago that there's exactly one person on the face of this earth who would understand it completely. I can't even let my husband read it, because it could ruin a role-playing game we go back to every once in a while.

So that's frustrating. On the other hand, this morning I received an e-mail from someone whose opinion I value and who rarely compliments anyone. The message was a complete surprise and praised dedication, strength, and independence. A portion of that praise also came from a couple of other people who I'd pretty much do anything for, and it's rather heady. That e-mail made my day; I feel as if I'm walking a few inches off the floor. (And to borrow a phrase from Skippy, "those who know will know"!)

You know, I did have a flash of a story idea as I was falling asleep last night. Maybe I'll try doing something with that today.

Grumble grumble grumble. I'm working

Grumble grumble grumble.

I'm working on being social again, I truly am.

For example, I might venture out of my home to the bank today. I hear there's this thing called Sun outside.

Woe betide anyone who actually tries to talk to me on the way, though.

The crazy thing is I'm in a good mood - so long as I'm by myself. Introduce another human being into the mix and I'm snarly again. Thank whatever deity you currently subscribe to that I have an on-line journal, so at least you all know I'm alive, because e-mail and phone calls are right out. I appear to have no patience with the human race, and it's nothing personal, honest.

If you are an alien disguised as a human, accept my apologies for judging you by your cover, so to speak, and no, I still won't be able to play nicely.

Grumble grumble grumble.

Jasper Fforde

Ginger reminded me of how much I love Jasper Fforde, so I thought I'd share his particularly quirky sense of humour with you:

If you prefer words, and haven't read The Eyre Affair yet (and why haven't you?), you can read an excerpt here. Caution: this is addictive for anyone who has a sense of humour and multiple degrees, or even a single Eng.Lit. degree. You've been warned.

COncidence? You Decide

Last night we were flipping through TV channels, and we came across My Stepmother Is An Alien, which I've never seen before and which I probably could have continued living quite serenely without, but for one interesting little fact.

"Hold on," I said before my husband could change the channel. "That's Alyson Hannigan."

"Willow?" he said. "No, it's not."

"Sure it is," I said. "Listen to her. Look at her eyes and her chin."

"Good gods, it is Alyson Hannigan," he said.

And a moment later, we had another shock.

"That's Seth Green playing her first date," my husband said in disbelief.

"No, it's not - yes, it is," I said. "This is unreal. They're so young!"

"I wonder what it was like on the Buffy set when they said, Hey Alyson, this is Seth, he's going to play Oz, your first boyfriend," he chortled.

Completely random, or a casting director with a sense of humour? You decide.

Fools!

I poured a bowl of muesli this morning, and suddenly, all my cats were winding around my legs, looking up at me hopefully.

"Go away," I told them. "This is human kibble, not kitty kibble."