Owls' Court

Yes, I'm a Music Snob...

And in this article, Norman Lebrecht has a couple of excellent points regarding what the Walkman (and its successors) has done to our musical tastes while bringing music to the mobile masses.

Sony Walkman - Music to whose ears?
By Norman Lebrecht (July 26, 2004, La Scena Musicale)

(Also via Arts & Letters Daily)

Taking the Mystery Out Of Deja Vu

The Tease of Memory, by David Glenn

Psychologists are dusting off 19th-century explanations of déjà vu. Have we been here before? (July 23, 2004, The Chronicle of Higher Education)

(Via Arts & Letters Daily)

GetThee Behind Me, Deadline

Done. In two days, the first half of my manuscript has been edited and sent back. Yes, it was an insane deadline. But it's done. It occurs to me that sooner or later I'll have to stop performing miracles, or I'm going to get myself in a tight spot some day. Right; from now on, the Scotty method of evaluating engine-repair jobs. (Although it occurs to me that delivering material before my estimated time of completion is how I got myself up to celebrity status. Hmm.)

And I have suddenly remembered the possibilities held within the addition of simple underarm gussets, which just might make this ritual dress a go instead of simply a learning experience. Of course, I have no more black thread on hand. I'll pick some up tonight, because right now, all I want to do is rest after driving myself mad with edits for forty-eight hours.

The Deadline Looms

I asked t! how things were when he called from work yesterday afternoon. "I no longer hate the plot," he responded. And you know, that's really all a creative-type can hope for sometimes. When you don't hate what you're writing, you can at least work on it. When you hate it, all you can do is scroll through it and think about how much you detest the thing Sometimes, the most important thing about writing or drawing or painting or composing is just getting to a point where you no longer hate the work, even if it's just for a moment. So long as you hate it, you're focused on the fact that you hate it, and not the work in question. But as soon as you're past the hate, a dozen new avenues of development open up.

I have an hour and a half till my deadline. I don't hate my manuscript. I hate that I have to rearrange information between two chapters.

Beating the System

I am drinking iced tea instead of hot tea. That way it can't get cold. And if it hits room temperature, well, it's a heck of a lot easier to drop an ice cube into it than to boil a new pot of water.

Summer Food

This recipe came to me via an herbal e-list I'm on, and it sounded so delicious I wanted to share it.

Lemon Thyme Pesto:
1/4 cup lemon thyme leaves
2/3 cup parsley
1/3 cup pine nuts
1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
1 clove fresh garlic
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1/4 to 1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

Blend all ingredients in a food processor or blender, making into a paste. Use on pasta, blend into softened butter to use on grilled chicken or fish, cooked carrots, as a bread spread, or mixed into rice. Store in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.

(Originally published in the April 2002 edition of The Herbin' Thymes, the newsletter of The Evening Herb Society of the Palm Beaches.)

*blink* *blink*

I've just finished editing the first two chapters of my manuscript.

They're good. In fact, they're much better than I remember them. My line editor is a genius at suggesting the occasional alternate word, and moving a word to a different position in a sentence in order to make it just that much smoother. To my immense glee, there aren't many edits at all, and lots of positive comments and queries for further personal interest. She described it as clean, solid, and the best New Age text that she has ever read. And get this -- the manuscript is running "a bit long." Muah-hah-hah! Better to cut here and there to tighten things up than to produce masses of new material!

Chapter Two, the chapter on history, is definitely better than I remember. This is the chapter I wanted to cut completely when I submitted the manuscript, remember? But upon a fresh re-read it's solid, and it's important to give the reader a sense of where it all came from, and what the major influences have been.

And, true to form, my tea is now cold. All is right with the world. Except for the fact that I have to make more tea.

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 vestament 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.

Aha!

I knew I'd encountered Jennifer Saunders before I heard her voice the Fairy Godmother in Shrek 2. Not only was she in AbFab, but she was Mrs. Bluberidge in Muppet Treasure Island. (Think about it: "How does she do that?" Yes, indeed.)

I'm Covered

Debra asked me yesterday if I had any say in the cover for my upcoming book. Authors usually have no say whatsoever, unless they've achieved a level of negotiating power where it's written into their contract. In my case, I do, but only because I'm the series editor as well. (It's good to be the queen.)

So when I got home last night and found a file of two cover concepts waiting for me, I was excited. The first one was the embodiment of everything that turns my blood cold about the New Age marketing thing. Solid black, with silver writing. "It's glam!" the design department said. "My book isn't," was my reply. I let them know why black and glam don't do well in selling to serious esoteric readership, which is the target audience of this series. Fortunately, the second concept was lovely: an old brown leather sort of texture, and a white font which I suggested be tweaked to ivory or off-white. The whole thing suggests an old, well-used book.

And, hard on the heels of my editing rant yesterday... the design department had incorrectly transcribed the subtitle of the book, changing the meaning completely.

Covers make or break a book. Somewhere around here there's a hard copy of an article I wrote for a local book newsletter examining the importance of book covers, and the effects of current trends on sales. When (if) I ever find it, I'll transcribe it and put it up in the Read section. I know exactly how fortunate I am to be able to nix that first cover, and to give the thumbs-up to the second, with modifications.

Advanced Witchcraft, Devolving Production Values

After a coven discussion yesterday afternoon on the power of words and how form affects the content, I came across this spelling/editing error in Advanced Witchraft: Go Deeper, Reach Further, Fly Higher, a book that I'm reading for review:

"He sites the example of [...]."

(This, coveners, is what made me throw the book across the room yesterday evening and sit down to write that lengthy e-mail about form and content. Blame the author, Edain McCoy (who ought to have caught these in revision), and her editor, Rebecca Zins.)

Siting an example would be surveying the surrounding land and establishing a latitude and longitude for it. If you quote something, you cite it. It's not the same thing.

Gods! Errors such as these in published material are unforgivable! Gritting my teeth, I moved beyond it. I bristled, but I knew what the author meant. (Just to add fuel to the flame, she was referring to Jean Markale. My indignance on his behalf knows no bounds.)

Apart from this textual slip, the labels on the chart of elemental symbols were scrambled, so that the symbol for Air is identified as Water, the symbol for Fire is identified as Air, the symbol for Earth is identified as Fire, and the symbol for Water is identified as Earth. Errors like this make me mistrust a text identified as "Advanced Witchcraft." I know they're layout problems, but still; a production team can make or break a book, and the production team allowing spelling errors and chart errors is doing nothing to support the content of the text. My ultimate review will reflect this.

Apart from this, the book's not bad. It's about walking the walk, and talking the talk. It admits that what we did in our first two or three years is nothing like what we do now; in fact, lots of the info we wrote down back then no longer is part of our practice. It compares making magic with spirituality, the way of life that magic becomes as you progress in practice and study. Lots of philosophical musing; not many exercises, which of course is one of the things advanced practitioners are looking for. I'm only halfway through. I've yet to find new information that I don't already know, or have come up with on my own. (That's one of my standard measures: Does this book tell me something new? Or does it re-state something I already know in a better fashion?)

Today I get to go into the bookstore for a meeting. The newly-arrived four-volume set of Grimm's Teutonic Mythology, unavailable for years, a price of over $200, and a must for anyone who studies a Nordic path, is there, and I don't know if I possess the self-control to ignore it until my next cheque comes in. Perhaps I'll distract myself with the 8x10 colour posters that my publishing company sent out to promote the new series I'm editing. They have a picture of me and the first two books being released this fall on them. I'm glad I was warned, otherwise when I stopped in on Friday night for a workshop I might have seen them, panicked, then turned and run away. Mentioning this to the editor of the local Pagan journal, she kindly told me that the same info was in the books & publishing section of the issue that had just hit the newsstands. I have good friends. They know that I love what I do, but they also know that the whole using me to promote the series thing is still freaky to me.

I think I'll go downtown early and poke about the dressmaker's supply shop.

Note to Self

Sewing Rule #1:

Cats cannot distinguish between the bits of crumpled paper which you throw for them, and the fragile, crumply pieces of tissue paper pinned to the fabric.

Sewing Rule #2:

Even when you think the floor is clean, when you have cut out your pattern pieces, there will be all kinds of detrius stuck to the fabric when you lift it up.

Sigh.

Holy --!

This will amuse Those Who Know, and Those Who Have Been Asking recently:

(From Foxydot.)

The Walker Is Abroad

Which 'The Dark Is Rising' Sequence Main Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Now sounds like a good time to re-read the whole sequence. It's summer. I always associate the Dark is Rising sequence with summer. (Even though The Dark is Rising itself takes place in winter. Everything else is very summer hols-type stuff.)

Thank Gods It's Based on the Book (And Other Henson News)

Yes, the Muppets are about to film The Wizard of Oz.

Rumoured cast list:

Kermit the Frog will be the Scarecrow

Fozzie Bear will be the Cowardly Lion

The Great Gonzo will be the Tin Man

Miss Piggy will be pulling double duty as both the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch

In a really cool bit of casting, Pepe the Prawn will take on the role of Dorothy's dog Toto.

And the role of Dorothy will played by a yet to be cast human guest star.

And for those who didn't know, there's to be a Fraggle Rock DVD released in late summer; alas, it only has episodes 1.1, 1.2, and 1.3, but it's Fraggle Rock, you know? More! More!

If you ever saw Henson's The Storyteller, the first series with John Hurt is now available on DVD (watch for Sean Bean!); the second series with Michael Gambon, the Greek Myths, will be released in September 2004. And if you never saw it, then trust me, the episodes are exquisite, and if you're at all a fan of mythology, folklore, and/or Henson, you'll want to see these.

(You too can waste hours over at the Muppet Central website!)

In Which She Meets and Accepts Her Destiny

The problem with going away for a week and a half is that when you come back, you have a week and a half of work to catch up on, as well as doing your regular daily stuff.

Naturally, I slogged away yesterday, and am experiencing severe "nuh-uh" today.

So I opened my new sewing machine.

*blissful pause*

It has thirty stitch modes. And a clutch. My sewing machine has a clutch.

Goodbye, everyone; it's been nice, but the siren song of my sewing machine beckons. If you don't hear from me again, you'll know that wherever I died, I died with my arms curled protectively around my Kenmore 385.12312100....

You Are A Head By A Sentry

Happiness is hitting random on the Tragically Hip playlist, and getting Nautical Disaster right off the bat.

It doesn't get any better than this.

(Oh, the post title? The result of listening to the Hip while on the way home from a live TV broadcast in Kingston. It was night. I was tired. t! was in the car. It was Hallowe'en.)

Herbal Refresher

Honestly, apart from the cool bath before bed, one of the only things that keeps me sane in the summer is dampening a cotton ball with rose water and wiping my face, arms, and neck with it (especially the back of the neck). Standing in front of the fan directly afterwards makes it even better. Rose water can be found in most specialty and cultural groceries; the little place around the corner from me sells a good-sized bottle for under five dollars. I use it as an offering as well, and often add a splash to my altar water. Some day I'll pour three bottles into my bathwater and soak in my big claw-foot tub, but I haven't been that brave yet.

Unless you hate the smell of roses (like my friend Raven, for example), you'll likely find that this is a remarkably easy way to cool off and relax at the same time. And if you do dislike roses, you poor person, then there's always orange water you can use instead.

Well, Damn

Dittany of Crete is simply marjoram tops.

I love what I do, but you know, sometimes research takes the mystery out of things a little too completely.

The Importance of Supernatural Belief

Christopher Whittle has written an interesting article on the presence of paranormal belief in modern culture, published in the March 2004 Skeptical Inquirer and available for reading here.

A sample:

We are taught about angels, witches, devils, spirits, monsters, gods, etc. virtually in the cradle. Some of these paranormal beliefs are secular, some are religious, and the most pernicious are crossover beliefs, beliefs that are at times secular and at other times religious. Santa Claus, angels and vampires, ghosts and souls, and the Easter Bunny are examples of cross-over beliefs. Crossover beliefs are attractive to children (free candy and presents), and on that basis they are readily accepted. The devils, ghosts, and monsters are reinforced through Halloween rituals and the mass media. As the child matures, some crossover beliefs, called "teaser" paranormal beliefs, are exposed as false. Traditional religious concepts are reinforced as "true and real." They give us Santa Claus and we believe in an omniscient, beneficent old elf and then they replace Santa with God, who is typically not as generous as Santa Claus and whose disapproval has more serious consequences than a lump of coal. We learn about God and Santa Claus simultaneously; only later are we told that Santa Claus is just a fairy tale and God is real.

In a synergy of cultural indoctrination and the individual's cognitive and affective development, a general belief in the paranormal and the supernatural forms. Once we have knowledge of the paranormal, we can then experience it. One cannot have Bigfoot's baby until one is aware that there is a Bigfoot, or aliens, or ghosts. In other words, you cannot see a ghost until someone has taught you about ghosts. Countervailing influences, experiential knowledge, and knowledge of realistic influence have little effect on paranormal beliefs because they are applied after the belief is established through cultural and familial authority.

I don't necessarily agree with him throughout the entire article -- there are a couple of leaps -- but he raises some interesting points.

(Found via Arts & Letters Daily.)

Musical Ephemerae

I finished my new Music page of the site last night. I was rather surprised to discover that I've only been with the orchestra for three seasons, not four, and I'm rather impressed at the amount of repertoire I've acquired since joining them.

Rumour has it that my goddaughter is currently enthralled with celli. I must get the viola fixed so that she can hold it like a cello and mess about with it.

Note: a cool bath before bed brings the body temperature down, and the world doesn't seem as humid and infernal as it actually is. I had a wonderful night's sleep. Although swinging my legs over the edge of the bed in the morning only to discover that my feet no longer reach the floor is still slightly disconcerting. It will fade in time.

Buying Pagan Books

An excellent article on how to buy your first Pagan books (which is applicable to seasoned buyers as well) can be found at The Lotus Pond. (Anything that begins with a warning against purple and glitter is fine by me.) The article on Tools for Learning is good, too.

So now that the owlies

So now that the owlies have moved, the I've-been-meaning-to-update-the-website-design-scheme project which had been lagging suddenly became much more pressing. So voila: the new Owldaughter design ought to be omnipresent. If you find a page in the old style, or a broken link, let me know via the contact buttons.

I'm currently craving fresh bread, balsamic vinegar, and that lovely Italian olive oil my mum hand-imported for me from Tuscany. Thank all the gods that HRH left me his keys today so that I can go out for the vinegar and the bread, otherwise there would be a very nasty Autumn waiting for him when he got home...

See what happens? I go home for twelve days, and my food standards have shot way the hey above what I normally eat. Ruined, I tell you -- ruined. Although the ten sliced yellow and orange peppers from the farmers' market (eighty cents each!) currently freezing on baking sheets in my freezer, along with the raspberries, will go a long way towards soothing my gastronomic snobbery in the coming days.

Victory!

The owlies hoot and pop champagne bottles to celebrate their new home. Kudos to Blade of General Galaxy Studios who made the move so enjoyable.

Now to trudge back and update my URL with webrings and subscription services...

Notice

The little owlies request that you hold onto your hats and socks and keep all wingtips inside the blog as it changes its location to the Owldaughter domain. We might be down for all of half an hour at midday today; you'll likely not even sense motion as Blade skillfully manipulates time and space.

The owlies thank you for your attention. The new location will be posted soon so that you may all update your links and bookmarks accordingly.

Fool's Fate

I forgot to mention that I finished Fool's Fate while I was gone. I can see what Ginger means when she says that she's not quite fine with the end of Fitz's story. I was impressed at the skill (no pun) with which story elements from three trilogies were wrapped up in general, however. It's not a completely happy ending; there was loss, things weren't too easy, and Robin Hobb deliberately didn't take everything away from any of the protagonists, nor reward them completely. In the end, it just might have been the only way to end it, really.

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.

Witches Weekly for July 10,

Witches Weekly for July 10, 2004 -- Pagan Community

1. How did you choose the specific path you're on? (Druid, Wiccan, Sumerian...)

Choose? Sometimes I feel as if I've been railroaded into it, and all the while Spirit was snickering up its sleeve.

The story's been told before. Namely, I was doing research for a character whom I decided would be a modern witch, and rather than making it all up I chose to visit the local metaphysical shop and pick up a couple of introductory books. The rest, says the author/priestess/teacher, is history.

Come to think of it, I did the same sort of research on ferrets last November for my NaNo novel, but I didn't become a ferret fan. Any more than I already am, that is. Ferrets are a nice idea, but too fast and nippy in person for my taste.

(For a more detailed answer to this question, visit the Owldaughter: Believe page.)

2. What do you feel you contribute to the pagan community?

Ahem. I'm a once-bitten type of girl, which means that I stuck my neck out in the Montreal pagan community about four or five years ago, and was disgusted with the hypocrisy which abounds. I was one of the four original founders of the Montreal Pagan Resource Centre, which is still going strong. It was the first pagan resource centre in Canada. I got tired of the community backbiting the people who were attempting to provide a common space and ground where everyone could meet, and resigned two years later. (Tangent: The amount of political crap that goes on in the Montreal pagan community never ceases to amaze me, however. It whines and moans about the lack of community, then snaps and backstabs any attempt at community support. I once told an interviewer that the Montreal pagan community eats its young. It's a curious truth. End tangent.) For the past four years now I have taught a four-level program which studies a broad spectrum of comparative religion over the ages (N.B.: this is not a spiritual path; it's a survey program which examines techniques and beliefs of various cultures). I also write articles and reviews for our local pagan journal, and I think my editing of the New Age imprint counts as well. For the first time I've realised that I'm a part of an international community as well as my local community, and I try to lead by example.

3. How long have you been an active member of the pagan community?
I never really hid what I was; after all, it's a spiritual path, and frankly it's nobody's business. I became unmistakeably part of the Montreal community when I began to work in the city's largest and oldest metaphysical shop. It's hard to deny that you're not part of the community when you're immersed in it every day.

Happy Anniversary!

Happy thirty-seventh anniversary to my wonderful mum and dad, who have persevered through tears and laughter, challenge and triumph, and a thirty-three year old daughter who has had her nose in a book most of her life.

I love you both immensely.

Buried in Books

I've just finished my fifth book since arriving here. I feel like I'm catching up on reading fun stuff. I enjoy research, of course, but it's truly relaxing to read a book for pure pleasure, without a pencil in my hand and a notebook by my side.

I read a third of Undead and Unwed by MaryJanice Davidson on the plane, then finished it here Thursday night. Not as solid as I'd hoped it would be; I guess the reviews denoting it as a summer beach book were more accurate than the ones touting the comedic value. It felt like a giant set-up, as it ends on an obvious tune-in-next-time note.

Once here, I had access to my mother's mystery library, so I read the third Indigo Tea Shop mystery by Laura Childs, Shades of Earl Grey. I like the author's characters, and the setting of Charleston, so I still read them, despite the author's heavy-handed habit of obviously teaching the reader about something new every book. Educational tea references embedded in the text are fine, as that's what the series revolves around. But the fourth book, The English Breakfast Murders, opens with volunteers baysitting a turtle hatching on the beach, and the author Educates You About Turtles. Apart from this habit which makes me roll my eyes, the copy-editing drives me mad. Two books in a row had a character taking a "peak" at something, one of the spelling errors that drives me mad. (The other really bad one is ladies wearing "broaches." You broach a wall or a subject. Ladies wear brooches. A successful computer spellcheck does not mean that you're using the correct spelling for the context of the word.)

Last night in bed I read Joanne Dobson's The Maltese Manuscript from cover to cover. This is the latest in a literature-themed series based in a fictional New England college, around an English professor. It's been about two years since the last book in this series, and I'd forgotten how truly above-average Dobson's work is. I almost wish I'd never read her before so that I'd have the pleasure of reading all five now.

And half an hour ago I finsihed Victoria Thompson's latest in the Gaslight series, Murder on Mulberry Bend. Set in Victorian New York, this series foucuses on a midwife and a police officer as they uncover murder in both the lower and upper classes. They're nothing to write home about, but I'd read one recently, and I needed something new to read, so I pulled it out of the bookcase.

Next is a fictional story of Elizabeth I, another of my mum's favourite topics. But now, it's dinner, which I think is grilled German sausages. And I think I'll have a cider.

Shrek 2 Review

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.

More JOy -- And From the Bank, Of All Places!

I love Francois Mercier.

I heaved a deep sigh when I brought my cheque into my bank at 10.06 this morning only to find out that my financial rep is on vacation. Regular readers will remember that she told me to bring my next cheque in to her before depositso that she and the manager could see it and officially flag these cheques as "ok in the past, speed up processing." When I heard she was on holiday I thought that I was out of luck. But the receptionist assured me that they could at least get it going so that all she'd have to do when she returned was approve it.

They sent me to Frank, who listened with a slightly furrowed brow as I explained the whole situation yet again. I stressed the fact that my account had been noted as having this sort of thing happen the last time I had to deposit the American cheque. He said, "Do you have the new cheque with you?" I handed it to him. He said, "Let me bring this to my manager." He vanished for a couple of minutes, I practiced Meditation Under Irritating Circumstances, and he came back. "Are all these cheques going to be from the same company, drawn from the same bank?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Same amount?" "Well," I said, "this one's nice and big, because it's the advance fee for a book, but most will be about a third of that, coming in every three months or so." "Okay," said Frank, and he sat down, typed stuff in, and asked me what account I wanted the money to go to. I gave him all the info, and he worked out the conversion, named me a delightfully high number of Canadian dollars in exchange for the American ones indicated on the cheque, and handed me the deposit slip. "So when will this be available, then?" I asked, sliding my purse strap up my arm as I prepared to stand up. He blinked. "It's there now," he said.

I stared at him.

Oh, gods. I want to kiss a stranger.

"It's there now?" I repeated.

"Yeah. And hey, I see you've been with our bank for twenty years. Your release amount should be over twice what it is. You know, when you deposit a cheque in the ATM, you can only access a couple hundred dollars rigt away? It really ought to be higher. If you like, I'll prepare everything and make sure Kelley gets it when she returns; if she needs you she'll call, but I'm fairly certain that she can do it and she'll send you an update in the mail."

Frank, you are a beautiful, beautiful man.

I left in a daze, transferred money to two other accounts, and paid down a lot of Visa.

All it takes is patience after initiating the correct process. That and telling the right people the right things.

Joy in the Mailbox

My advance cheque came in! My advance cheque came in!

Yes, I know I've already submitted the manuscript. But my advance cheque came in!

Now I'll deposit it tomorrow morning, wait four weeks, and then magically have money once again. I know I've worked damned hard for it, but it feels like a gift. Knowing there's another hefty cheque in a couple of months to complete the manuscript payment is even more delicious. Plus the two cheques paying me for the two books I've edited due out this fall... yes, indeed, I'm feeling much more financially with it.

Even more awe-inspiring to me is the knowledge that I'm actually being paid for doing work in the field I studied (both fields I've studied, actually).

No, the money's still more impressive. I'm thankful for the working in my field thing, impressed at the fact that someone is paying me for it.

Jam on Hiatus

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.

Those Who Know

Thanks to a meeting last night, everyone's back on an even keel, on the same page, and there were even visual aids provided by HRH, who sketched neat little cars and put people inside them as we worked out transportation to our annual spiritual retreat down in Pennsylvania.

Oh, and the Second Cup's frozen hot chocolate? Delectable. You can actually taste real chocolate. I might skip the whipped cream on top next time, although after drinking the rest of the deliciousness the whipped cream ended up at the bottom, flavoured with the remaining chocolate. I'll have to be in a decadent mood to order the whipped cream again. The drink itself, though -- a definite winner. And what do you know, there's a Second Cup only ten minutes away from me...

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."

Happy Canada Day!

The Lady of the Dominion extends felicitations to the King of Canada in exile, HRH ForestWalker Rex, on this his annual holiday. Let's hope the rain doesn't dampen the spirits of your loyal subjects. Or the fireworks.