Owls' Court

Teaching and Such

I was originally supposed to teach the first of a two-part class tonight. There was one person registered; we have a three person minimum. The student checked in on his own yesterday, saw he was the only one with his name down, and understood the class to be cancelled. Just now, another student called the store to express her enthusiasm for taking the course. So we're shifting the first class to next week instead, and the second class to the 14th

This means I have an evening at home, which is simply lovely because it's been a busy week so far. I foresee a warm bath.

I have also aquired an unexpected second distance student for the level 1 course, which is fun; now we can hold chats and such. I thought if I was doing it for one student, I might as well do it with two, as I'll have all the questions and directions and exercises going on anyhow. They actually might live near one another, as well, which would be an added bonus, as they cold do coffee or some such thing. Once I have all the info I'll know one way or another.

Hmm. Since I'm not going out, a glass of red wine sounds remarkably attractive right now.

Oz Update

The confirmed cast list, both Muppet and live:

Steve Whitmire - Kermit the Frog as the Scarecrow, Statler, Rizzo, Bean Bunny, Beaker

Dave Goelz - Gonzo the Great as Tin Thing, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, Waldorf, Zoot

Eric Jacobson - Fozzie Bear as the Lion, Miss Piggy as the Wicked Witch of the East, the Wicked Witch of the West, the Good Witch of the North and Glinda, the Good Witch of the South, Animal, Sam Eagle

Bill Barretta - Pepe the Prawn as Toto, Dr. Teeth, Rowlf the Dog, Swedish Chef, Johnny Fiama, Bobo the Bear, Lew Zealand

Brian Henson - Scooter, Sal Manilla, Janice

Rickey Boyd - Scooter, Very Old Tom

Drew Massey - Sal, Clifford

Allan Trautman - Cow, Crow

John Henson - Sweetums

Tyler Bunch - Janice, Old Tom

John Kennedy - Angel Marie, Floyd

Alice Dinnean Vernon - Foo Foo, Camilla the Chicken

LIVE ACTORS

Ashanti Douglas - Dorothy Gale

Queen Latifah - Aunt Em

David Alan Grier - Uncle Henry

Jeffrey Tambor - The Wizard

C. Ernst Harth - Earl

Quentin Tarantino - Himself [Ed. note: Er?]

Edward Hibbert - Stage Manager

Dan Payne - Weatherman

PRODUCTION CREW

Kirk R. Thatcher - Director

Lisa Henson and Brian Henson - Executive Producers

Martin G. Baker and Warren Carr - Producers

Bill Barretta and Kristine Belson - Co-Producers

Veteran Muppeteer Jerry Nelson is not performing in this film as his classic Muppet characters have recently been recast. [Ed. note: Yeah, I noticed that. What's up?] Reportedly, Kevin Clash is not performing due to conflicts with his Sesame Street taping schedule. Kevin's characters will likely be looped in post-production.

[Piggy's playing all four witches? Genius! But isn't Glinda the Good Witch of the North? (Maybe they're setting it in Australia. Get it? Oz? South/North? Never mind.) Via Muppet Central.]

La Day

I went into the bookstore a couple of hours early today in order to stand in for the owner in a meeting with a sales rep, and I really enoyed it. I miss this part of the book business. I unpacked some books, entered a whack of data, and the day went rather quickly. Except for the fact that the keyboard in the office has a sticky E key, so that when I reread work there I discover words missing the most frequently used letter in the English language, whereas when I work at home I discover entire sentences made up of a single multi-compound word, thanks to my sticky space bar.

Came home, finally checked my email (the plea for substitution came rather early and rearranged my day a bit), made a good thick spaghetti sauce with two kinds of mushrooms, and discovered that the ritual HRH had been planning on attending began a whole hour earlier than he'd thought. This doesn't affect me, as it's a men's ritual, but it does affect the mood in the house. HRH had anticipated, nay, requires at least that extra hour at home to shower, eat, and detach from the work day before he heads out to engage in extra-curricular activity. When he got home and discovered the rit was an hour earlier, he struggled between wanting to race to get there (thereby ensuring that he'd be in no mood for a rit), or taking the time he needed. In the end he called the ritual leader and told him what was up, assured him he'd show up anyway even if it was late, although he wouldn't disrupt the rit if it was still in progress.

While he's in circle(or not), I get to be at Hurley's celebrating the continued existence of Darth Marc. Woo-hoo!

Hail Blade

Another round of thanks go to Blade for helping me install updates to MT. I have absolutely no idea what I would do without him. Bother Scott, probably.

Indeed

To Read Is To Dream.

Indeed. And every time a book ends, it is a little death. How appropriate.

(Via Neil Gaiman, of course.)

Dill?

There's an awful lot of construction going on around here, both in the road and in the alley behind the building. And whatever they're doing in the alley, it sounds like they're cutting wood, but it smells like fresh-cut dill.

In the End

From Laurell K Hamilton:

Got an e-mail interview to finish up. It's due like Monday. Need to edit the sneak peek from A STROKE OF MIDNIGHT that will be in the back of the paperback of SEDUCED BY MOONLIGHT. Need to do that before we leave on tour. Oh, and pages. I need to make pages. There's this book I'm supposed to be writing, and it's like due soon.

Sometimes, it feels as if this is all that writing comes down to: making pages.

A Thank You to Everyone

Here's how I described that day five years ago in a comment left to thank our best man for his anniversary wishes:

Once upon a time, there were two friends and lovers who knew they wanted to celebrate how wonderful their relationship was. So they decided to have a Big Party where everyone would dress up. They chose to have the Big Party begin in an early-Canadian era chapel which had no electricity, because history, architecture and a simple life were both important to them. Then they chose to have the middle of the party at a museum housing famous Canadian works of art, because culture and visual art was also an essential element of their relationship. Then the party ended at a home, because love and family were the heart of both their lives.

And to walk at their sides during the day they chose two old friends who had seen them through good times and bad times. To guard them they had another friend, stalwart and true; and to seal the union with words of a Bard they had yet another friend of heart and soul. And to witness it all they had blood family and chosen family, every one dear to their hearts.

Your presence was a gift and a blessing. We love you all.

September 25, 1999

The Lady of the Dominion wishes to extend to HRH the appreciation for five years of wedded happiness, and the desire for the same in the future.

I love you. You're my tree, my rock, my support. You also occasionally drive me around the bend, but that's to be expected. You're my partner in life, love, and magic, and have enriched my life in ways I hadn't known were possible.

Here's to many more.

On Teaching

Last night's level four class was an Introduction to Teaching. I've never had formal training to teach; it's one of those instinctive things that I can pull off. Over the three and half hours, I listened to my co-teacher explain the basics to the students, and I learned how I do the things I do.

A lot of it is common sense, blended with awareness, sympathy, empathy, and organisation. There's a healthy dose of being flexible, and the absolute requirement of being knowledgeable about your subject. And, of course, confidence, or a reasonable facsimile thereof presented as a veneer (thank you, theatre experience).

It was fascinating to be able to literally tick off the aspects and abilities that I demonstrate every time I stand up in front of a class. I never could have taught this class, as I didn't know the mechanics. Now I do, and I'm feeling a lot better about my teaching as a result. Not that I was worried about it to begin with; I just feel even better now because I understand what it is that I do.

Hey...

Think anyone would notice if I submitted pictures of Juliet Landau as my publicity shots?

Names Removed to Protect the Guilty (Except For Robert Sawyer)

I've been finding online journals of authors who are also working through the process of editing their own manuscripts for publication, and there's a range of feelings. Some are common -- the idea that it will never end, the self-castigation, the 'what was I thinking,' the frustration -- and others are not. For example, some authors use this opportunity to rewrite drastic anounts of work, inserting new plots, excising old plots, and generally transforming the book into something very different. Of course, I'm dealing in NF, which may affect how the rewriting process plays out. (Or perhaps not, she says, thinking back to editing the Zombie Manuscript From Hell that went through drastic rewrites in order to reach a saleable point, and of excising the references (off-topic, I later realised) to alternative healing in her own spellcraft book.)

A local author (whom I had no idea was now local) mentioned the problem of responding to people who ask, "So what do you do?" at parties. When she responds with the words "writer" or "author," inevitably someone then asks, "So what do you write? Have you published anything?"

Argh. So understanding of the awkward position am I.

The author in question has had three fantasy novels published, and there's a fourth on the way. It's slightly odd to reveal information like this. Most authors don't like to brag; they're normal folks who are modest. (Okay, to be fair, Robert Sawyer makes up for the rest of them.) I think too that some authors, no matter how long they've been writing and publishing, still can't quite believe that someone is sending them paycheques for doing it. Writing is damned hard work, but authors can still feel somewhat stunned, as if we're getting away with something because few people think of it as a Real Job (as Laurell K Hamilton snarls in this entry).

I think I have to make a point here. Sure, a bunch of us have created beautiful and messy novel-like creatures in the throes of NaNoWriMo. I have discovered that there is a difference, however, between writing a book during NaNo, and writing a book contracted specifically for publication. If one writes a NaNo novel and then intends to publish it, there's major editing that needs to be done. Just because you did it (and hats off to you if you did) doesn't mean that it's publishable. That's the point of NaNo: as Tal says, accidental quality is acceptable, but above all it's quantity that counts. Get it down on paper! That's what it's all about! Beautiful, messy art! NaNo certainly helped train me in the production area: for example: I could trust myself to put 80K words down on the page in two months without freaking out over the deadline, once I had firmed up my chapter outline. Overall, though, it more unlike NaNo than similar to it.

Once your idea and outline of a book (NF or otherwise) is accepted for publication, it's a different story. Yes, you still have to be open and creative, but it's just not the same. You are acutely aware of your audience, and of how your story and/or information is delivered to that audience. It has to be ordered and balanced. Messy doesn't cut it, can't cut it. You have to develop a consistent product. That word changed how I understood and perceived the publishing process. When my editor began talking about a solid reliable product, I all of a sudden saw writing from the other side. As an author all these years, I was concerned with what I had to say, and how I said it. On the other side of the desk, I now understand the idea that sure, the author can write whatever s/he wants, but if it isn't in a form that will interest the buyer and reader, there's no point. Refining, focusing, re-visioning, snipping, pruning, coaxing new growth, marketing -- it's all as much a part of the book process as the original writing was.

Yes, it's cold. Yes, it means compromises. But it's part of what differentiates the NaNo experience from the publishing experience.

Tea

My current tea obsessions, which get me through the day and/or evening, depending on what I'm doing:

Tenue de soirée, from Un amour des thés in Montreal, QC (Ceylon tea with oils of dark chocolate and mint; for some reason the Tenue de Gala, the chocolate-only version, is the only one available for mail order);

and

Genmaicha Popcorn, from Tea at the White House in Waterdown, ON (green tea with toasted rice);

and

Bourbon Street Vanilla Rooibos, also from Tea at the White House (rooibos flavoured with vanilla essence and nuts, but sadly not available for mail order).

An Ideas Whose Time Has Come

Next time you sit down with a book, grab a bottle of your alcoholic beverage of choice and engage in an Author Drinking Games. Seriously! This could be just the thing for your next ho-hum book club meeting.

(Don't miss the second page; there's a good Charles de Lint list.)

The Wheel Turns

So.

Good to see you again, little sister.

NaNo Is Go!

Ceri called not long ago to ask what I was writing this November. When I said that I kind of had an idea for NaNo, but that I wasn't certain and didn't want to talk about it yet, she said, "No, no -- I meant, if you have to write a book to be published this November instead, everyone will forgive you!"

Well, I just spoke with my editor, and it turns out this green witch book is slated for a Spring 2006 release, so my manuscript won't be due until February or March 2005. Imagine! Five or more months to write a book! What luxury!

So yes: NaNo is on at my house this November. And now I can pull out the notebook of green witch notes and begin organising them into point-form chapters without wondering what sort of miracle I'd have to pull off this time. I'm relieved. The spellcraft book was mostly mechanics, so it was doable in two months. This one is more organic (no pun intended!) and much closer to my heart, so I'm glad that I have the room to think, and stretch, and grow with it.

Hmm

When I breathe in deeply, my back should not crack.

It felt good, though. Especially after working at the computer for five straight hours.

Sold!

I just listened to my phone messages (no, for some reason I didn't when I got home an hour ago) and they've accepted my proposal to write the book on green witchcraft!

Eeeeeeeeeeee!

Now I can stop teetering on the edge of "do I begin finding references, jotting down ideas, and doodling rough chapters now, or do I wait to see if it's a go" and plunge right in!

Now over the next couple of days we figure out contract stuff again (mostly the same as before, the message said) and then voila -- I've sold another book.

La la la la la!

Whimsy

Hands up those who want to see one of my cats in faerie wings. What's your favourite combination? How about Maggie-Cat in a pair of Sugar Plum wings? (Remember to insert the "you-must-be-kidding" look for full effect.) Or Nixie in a set of Dark Dragonfly wings?

I firmly believe that it's evil to dress animals up, and besides, they'd kill me. But thinking about putting them through it is offering me plenty of amusement this morning.

Strike Two?

I tried the ballet class again last night. The schedulers called at the end of last week to apologise for the error, and to inform me that the intermediate class had been recast as a beginner's course. So back I went to try it out.

Beginner's class. Yeah, right. That just means she's doing all the hard stuff at a slightly slower pace.

At least this time I stuck through it all. We began at the barre, worked there for forty-five minutes, then had a free stretch for about ten minutes, then did forty-five minutes of combinations in the centre of the floor. There are still about thirty people, but the two adult beginners with whom I'd spoken when we left last week crept out during the free stretch; they were completely in over their heads. Hell, I have six years of dance in my past and I was barely treading water.

I really don't know if this is for me or not. I was looking for something even more basic, from the ground up for adult beginners who have never danced before type of thing. I remember ballet being a lot calmer, and that calm is one of the things I'm looking for. On the bus on the way home I saw women with rolled-up yoga mats walking home and thought about how peaceful they looked. I talked to Ceri about yoga yesterday; maybe I'll call and see if there are places left in that class, and transfer over.

I don't know. I have to think about it. I could stick this out and be miserable, and eventually see some sort of improvement around December, or I could try to find something else which suits my level and benefits my mental and emotional state now, as well as improving. I know it's a challenge, but I wasn't looking for a challenge of this calibre when I decided to take up dance again. And with all my other commitments, I'd really prefer some sort of exercise that relaxes me, not stresses me.

Sigh. What to do, what to do...

Undecided

Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen are starring in the lead roles of a big-screen adaptaion of Austen's Pride & Prejudice to be released in 2005.

Er. Not sure about this one. Even though Donald Sutherland is playing Mr Bennett, and Judi Dench is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, there is only so far character roles can carry a film...

Catch-Up

Every once in a while I consume a flurry of books. This past week has been, apparently, one of those times.

I read Sophie Kinsella's latest paperback offering, Shopaholic Ties the Knot in one sitting last week; curiously enough, on the night I had that horrible crash-and-burn of self-doubt, in a vain attempt to stave off the lowering clouds. It was now here near as good as the first book in the series, nor the second, which, in turn, was not quite as good as the first. I picked this up for kicks, because I needed a laugh; I didn't really get one. This book never really got off the ground.

I was vaguely wandering through my library, wising that there was a Neil Gaiman book that I hadn't yet read because I was in That Sort of Mood, when I found a secondhand copy of Little, Big by John Crowley tucked away on my shelf. This is a World Fantasy Award winner, and was highly recommended by a couple of customers when I was working in the city's RIP speculative fiction bookshop; I'd picked it up years ago when I'd found it used, and never got around to reading it. It fits That Sort of Mood quite nicely. It has a wonderful dream-like quality, a charming setting, a generations-spanning story, and characters whom drift in and out of illusion and phantasm. This one will be recommended to a few people I know, particularly those who are fans of both Gaiman and Charles de Lint.

I finally became tired of waiting for Jim Butcher's Death Masks, which I've had on order for a year, so I picked it up when I was out the other day. I read the first half on Friday, and I finished the last half when I woke up at two this morning (no, not insomnia per se; I fell asleep at nine-thirty, so it served me right). Slow to start off, picked up speed towards the middle, ended well.

And then, since it was four AM and I was still quite awake, I picked up Laurell K. Hamilton's new Anita Blake paperback, Cerulean Sins and started to read it. I have no idea how Hamilton keeps track of all the bonds and debts and mystical attractions between all her characters; I certainly can't. I think I'll have to go back and re-read all the previous books in the series. I originally read them when there were only six books out, then one by one as they were released; I own the last three, but I'm looking for the others used. What once was occult thriller has now become erotic horror, with a heavy splash of politics. I like them enough to pick up the new ones as they become available, but not enough to buy the backlist new, especially at ten dollars a book.

The only book which doesn't take place in Narnia at all, per se, you're the story of a voyage to find the end of the world and hopefully the Seven Lost Lords (remember Rhoop!). You contain some of the most unique people and places and beautiful descriptions of the whole series.

Find out which Chronicles of Narnia book you are.

Some of the questions are too easy, but others are good and challenging. Mostly because they describe very ordinary things, I think.

Bitter? Well, Yeah

Yvonne Navarro, author of a multitude of SF-related books, really lets loose about the process of writing in a series world established by someone else in a rant entitled Buffy Books and Amazon.com Reviews.

I just realised that I have the joy (or something) of looking forward to reviews of my book done by everyday Joe and Jane Reader, not just professionals. Which means that yes, people will post to Amazon complaining because I didn't include something they wanted to read, which obviously makes it a bad book. Or that they tried something and it didn't work, so I'm a terrible author. That sort of review riles me up when I read it attached to anyone's book. I didnt like teh ending so the book suked and theres a tipo on page 43 dont read it -- hold me back, Dear Readers, hold me back.

So few people understand how to write a review correctly. If it's opinion, identify it as such. Just because you didn't like it doesn't mean the book is bad. Yes, we can not like a product because it's substandard, but that's not the root reason for every single one of our dislikes.

And Yvonne Navarro lists a host of other problems over which an author has no control, such as layout, typos, editing, and often rewrites as well. I have said in the past that everyone should work at least six months in retail in order to understand what it's like to be on the other side of the counter. Now I wonder if people should educate themselves about the publishing process as well in order to understand that that a writer doesn't just snap her fingers and a bound book appears; there are a multitude of elements involved.

People. Can't live with them; can't sell books without them.

Objective Attained

To my knowledge, every single copy-edit has been addressed, every insertion and deletion approved or rejected, and every rewrite done.

The manuscript and my own editorial memo have been sent back to the publisher four working days early.

I feel ten feet tall. There is ice cream in my future.

Theme Song: Bare Island

Because it will amuse Blade:

The soundtrack to my review of the copy-edits goes back and forth between ethereal angelic vocals, and Zimmer's MI2 soundtrack.

Love my MP3s, oh yes.

And for your amusement, a small sample of the other nifty tunes it plays, chosen for energy as well as fitting titles:

Tank! (Cowboy Bebop TV theme)
Cosmic Dare (Bebop film)
Hijack (MI2)
Tourniquet (Evanescence)
Duel of the Fates (Phantom Menance)
Common Disaster (Cowboy Junkies)
My First Bus Ride (Mummy Returns)
William, Lord Hastings (Looking for RIchard)
Nessum Dorma (Turandot)
Chambermaid (Emilie Autumn)
Virgin State of Mind (K's Choice)
It Doesn't Matter (Alison Krauss)
Breath of Life (Two Towers)

Launch of the LCO 2004-5 Season

We had our first chamber orchestra rehearsal of the year last night, and it was terrific. I played Beethoven all night; what more could one ask for? We worked on the Egmont Overture before the break (terribly passionate but tricky rhythm), and after the break we worked the final movement of the First Symphony. We've played this before, but this time we played it at a quarter-speed and really worked it.

Argh! So slooooooow!

And yet, it was beautiful in an odd way. It was very precise, instead of brimming with wild joy. It was a different piece of music. We had the opportunity to hear how well certain lines blended with others, and how perfectly constructed the movement is.

Each summer I lose less and less technical ability. Last night I pulled off some things I'd never been able to pull off cold before, and I didn't totally embarass myself when Douglas had the celli work a nasty passage alone. There was an amusing moment where we turned a page of our photocopied music and every cello stopped playing. When Douglas looked bewildered and asked us what had happened, we showed him the music: the photocopy had cut off every note above the top staff line on the page, so any note above a B was missing. And of course, as Fortuna would have it (or would that be Eris?), every note in that staff line was above a B. He called it out, we scribbled it in, we went on.

Equally funny was my amused suggestion to our section leader that we buy her a small chalkboard, so that instead of turning around to whisper a bowing change she can simply scribble it on the board and then hold it above her head, so that we can all see it and write it into our music. It's such a mess to lean forward and try to hear the whispered changes, understand them, and then pass them back; inevitably it turns into a game of broken telephone, and the last cellist gets it wrong. She couldn't stop laughing at the idea.

So the first concert programme (no, no date as of yet) will consist of:

- Egmont overture (Beethoven)
- First Symphony (Beethoven)
- Water Music suite II in D major (Handel)
- Double Clarinet Concerto in B major (Stamitz)
and something else that we're getting next week

I was happy, and I was comfortable. I love orchestra. If I end up not dancing this fall, then at least I'm playing the cello in a group environment again.

White Night

Bad night last night. Bad, bad, bad. Every little error in the manuscript became magnified and I was convinced of my ineptitude, that I had no right to be writing at all, let alone teaching. Things are always worse when you're in that odd state somewhere between place between awake logical thought and blissful sleep, that state of not-quite-asleep-nightmare-place. There, you have no control over what you're thinking or feeling, and I sometimes feel like I've been strapped to a plane whose engines have been shot out and we're enacting the original crash and burn sequence, my eyes wide open watching the ground get closer and closer, smoke from the fire stinging my eyes, with absolutely no way of stopping the disaster.

It's worse when you're alone. Earlier this summer I learned the value of having HRH wake up and say, "What's wrong?" Often I can't articulate what's causing the night terrors, but having him awake with me helps simply because I don't feel so alone. Night terrors are irrational; that's the key. The logical mind can say things such as, "You are a perfectly balanced, intelligent human being with friends who enjoy your company, and with people who recognise and employ your considerable talents," but the irrational mind can't shake the tidal wave of emotion crowned by that feeling of utter worthlessness, the feeling that you've let everyone down somehow, the feeling that you've been lying to the world not just in the matter of whatever triggered the terrors, but in every aspect of your life.

Allow me to reiterate: None of this is true. I know that. The point of night terrors is that they're irrational. And night terrors always seem so lame in the daylight when I look back on them and feel slightly ashamed; at the time, however, you just have to ride them out. And it was good to have HRH there to hold me as I wept, and to have him say, "I wish you weren't so hard on yourself. I wish you didn't beat yourself up like this." Night terrors require a rock to serve as some sort of anchor for the battered and wave-swept soul, and HRH was a wonderfully sturdy chunk of Precambrian Shield. And once I was wrung out, he brought me water and aspirin, then cuddled me until I finally fell asleep around two-thirty.

The complete and total irrationality of the experience scares me, both when I'm in the midst of the situation and afterwards. The depth of emotion and terror at the time ruthlessly swamp rational thought. That in itself is terrifying. It's almost as if this is an inside-out version of how I felt when I was at the deepest part of my depression: instead of not caring, I care too much, and I start drowning in the anxiety and emotion.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm ready to be a grown-up. When I was a child, the feelings of self-doubt were centered around other tings, such as having friends at school; and while that's a proportionally large concern for someone of that age, it still seems blissfully minor. Now I know that I have friends, good friends, admirable people who wouldn't be hanging out with me if I wasn't worth it, and the issue connected to that which my night terrors feed on is the concept of disappointing them, my family, my students, the world.

Tonight I think I'll be dragging out the Evil Prescription Sleeping Pills that taste dreadful but knock me out in about five minutes. Too many nights lying awake thinking recently. Thinking scares sleep away.

Have you read...?

Because she can evoke from her readers every single emotion, from fear to anger to whatever emotion it is which leads to outrageous giggling, I give you Dooce. I've been reading her weblog as long as I've been blogging (yeah, that would put it right around the "she got Dooced" time), and I wanted to point her out to people who might not know her.

Th entry of September 14, 2004, entitled All questions must be submitted in writing, is particularly poignant.

I will always remember those few hours, and the days of worry leading up to those few hours, and the years and years leading up to those days when I didn’t know what it was like to have my soul wrapped inside the palm of a baby.

Good News, Bad News: The Irony

The bad news:

It was my worst fears come true. I was a miserable failure in my first ballet class. I barely kept up with the first ten-minute set of barre work. In the second set, I limped, I wobbled, I was two moves behind the others, I skipped sections and marked time. It was way, way beyond my ability and skill level. I left halfway through.

The good news:

There was a problem with registration, and this was in fact an intermediate ballet class. And I stuck it out for half an hour of challenging workout that had even the real intermediate dancers exclaiming in surprise.

Fifteen other people left as well; ten of them before I did, during the teacher's demonstration of the first combination set, as a matter of fact. And they left making snarky comments about how it ought to have been easier because they were beginners. We five left when half an hour in, the teacher called a short pause to talk to those of us who were concerned (and with justification, she acknowledged). I wanted to smack the ones who walked out without giving it a chance. Hey; it wasn't not the teacher's fault. It's the fault of the schedulers, the advertisers, and the registration crew. And it was doubly rude in a ballet class: a large part of ballet is based on reverence for the oral tradition passed to you by the teacher, whether you like them personally or not, whether they've made you happy, sad, or angry. In ballet, you still bow, curtsey, or applaud your teacher at the end of class to symbolise your appreciation for that tradition; it's called a reverence.

Okay; these were snippy nineteen-year-olds. And it was an open house class for some of them. But still. Manners!

So as the teacher had told us to do, I and those four other women left our names at the front desk, indicating that we were interested in a beginner's ballet class -- you know, this is how you point your toe, here's how you hold the barre, these are the five positions, this is the port de bras and so forth. There will be others, others who were determined to stay to the end of the class no matter what, but who also indicated to the teacher during the pause that they would be happier in a beginner's course.

It's ironic that I'd worked myself up over it, and then when I found myself plunged into an intermediate class that presupposed I had been dancing for a couple of years, I forgot those fears and did the best I could. It's amusing that I psyched myself up to deal with the stress, and the class turned out to simply be the wrong class.

Oh, and the leotard/workout pants I wore? Just fine. Go me.

It's Funny Because It's True

I'm not a Christian-basher; I'm a freedom-for-all-religions kind of gal. But I'm all for political satire. This targets Bush, not Christ, and it's damned funny.

The Bush Campaign's TV Commercial If He Was Running Against Jesus

Copy-Edits: Round One

I went through the copy-edits for the first five chapters of the book today, slogging through Track Changes one more time. There have been a couple of moments of “What was I thinking when I wrote that? They’re right to call me on it.” There were also a moment of downright attack on the part of the reader who did the edits, where she aggressively did a half-page response which basically said that “this author has absolutely no right to be discussing this kind of issue, and I’m appalled that she is addressing it in this fashion” which hurt a lot; but the reader was right. It was a theoretical ethical issue which I’d created, and I’d had problems working it through and writing it out to begin with, so I’m actually relieved that it’s gone as I wasn’t proud of it. This is one of those instances where I would have melted into a self-pitying mass in a corner, and I would have stopped right there and brooded on it for the rest of the day had Ceri not been here. There have also been a couple of places where I’m just embarrassed to have been caught out on something I didn’t double-check. But all in all, it’s going quite well, I suppose.

The moshing butterflies in my stomach are very uncomfortable as I go through it, however. I’m always slightly on the edge of fight-or-flight, waiting for an attack or a dismissal or some such response. There have been so far a couple of lines of praise inserted by the reader as well, one right after the nasty words about the ethical section (mainly that my next example stood on its own and needed no other support), and a couple after my math in the planetary hours bit (go me!). Those help. None of this is personal. None of it. (I must write that on a sticky note and paste it to my monitor.)

And now we’re drawing close to the time when I have to close this editing session and make dinner, so that I can leave and go to my first ballet class, which is creating butterflies of its own. I hate, hate, hate going out alone for the first time to a physical activity. Will wearing my leotard and workout pants be all right? How many people will be there? Am I going to make a complete idiot of myself?

First class, I remind myself. First beginner’s class.

Still nervous.

Aspiring Writers -- The Conclusion

Here are the concluding segments of the series on aspiring writers by Storm God's Bride:

Diary of an Aspiring Writer -- Part 4 (One Word After Another)

Diary of an Aspiring Writer -- Part 5 (Revising the Muck)

Diary of an Aspiring Writer-- Part 6 (Welcome to the Black Hole)

Be Afraid

"So why are we supposed to listen to Philip Glass' score to The Secret Agent this afternoon?" I asked Ceri as she hung up the phone after a conversation with the Baron Himself.

"Because t! said to do it, and it sounded harmless, so I said yes," she said.

We laughed.

(If you know t!, you too will laugh. If you do not, then just imagine someone who never makes an idle suggestion, and you'll be on the right track.)

Anniversary Mission: Accomplished

I have been instructed by HRH the King to inform you all that I am cool. Very cool.

I handed him an anniversary card right outside our door last night as I was unlocking it. He opened it, smiled, gave me a kiss, and set it up on the hallway chest of drawers next to one of our wedding pictures.

"Why don't you put it on the mantelpiece?" I said.

"Because we have pictures of us here, and it's kind of a little shrine to the two of us, see?" he said.

"The mantelpiece is a kind of shrine too," I pointed out.

"Well, yeah, I guess it is," said he, and into the living room HRH went. He set it up on the mantelpiece, and only then noticed the brightly wrapped box on the floor in front of the television.

"What's that?" he inquired. I sat down in the easy chair and shrugged, blinking innocently at him.

"No idea. You'd better open it and find out."

"Maybe you should open it," HRH said.

"No," I said, "really, go ahead."

So HRH bent over to pick it up, and wasn't expecting the weight. "Good gods," he said, nearly dropping it. He managed to swing it over the coffee table so that it didn't crash to the floor. "What's in this thing?"

As it slipped his hands caught on one of the flaps of wrapping paper, and it tore away to reveal a green, black, and white box.

"Hunh?" he said, tore it some more, and peered over the edge to get a full view of the image. HRH then made some sort of indescribable noise, jerked his hands away from it, turned around and walked away into the dining room, one hand over his mouth. He did a complete circuit of the dining room, and then came back, looking at me, his eyes bright.

"No way," said HRH. "No way."

"Keep opening it," I said. I couldn't stop smiling. So he tore the rest of the paper away from his refurbished Xbox, and then came over to give me a very gentle hug and an equally gentle kiss, as if he thought he'd break me if he hugged me as hard as he wanted to. He was practically trembling.

"I never. Really. No idea," he said. Go me, I thought; I reduced him to incoherency. "This isn't real."

"Then open the box to prove it," I said. So he did, and practically exploded when he saw Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic also waiting for him under the lid.

"I also got you Jedi Knight: Jedi Academy, which is multi-player capable so that we can play together," I said, producing another controller pad from where I'd hidden it (I'd run out of wrapping paper).

"You," said HRH, "are the absolute coolest wife. You got a game and a second controller so that I could have you play with me. That is so perfect for an anniversary present."

"That's pretty much what the guy at EB Games in Angignon Mall told me, too," I said.

So: my evaluation of the anniversary misson? An absolute success. We've never done anything major for our anniversaries in the past; in fact, we usually don't get gifts for one another at all. This is partly because we usually don't have extra cash, but also because we celebrate the two of us together in little ways throughout the year. This year marks our fifth anniversary (and no, you haven't missed it, it's almost two weeks away), and I wanted to do something different. I also wanted to give HRH something to help him relax, as for the past couple of years he's been wound tighter than the spring on the front door of our apartment building, and it's lately been getting much worse. I have issues with watching TV to relax, as it's completely passive, but game-playing engages the active intellectual and intuitive faculties as well. HRH loves playing games with Scott, and getting himself an Xbox was one of those castles in the air he'd constructed to help motivate him through projects. If I spend a total of x hours on artwork this year, he'd say, I'll get myself an Xbox. Except that I knew he'd never actually get one for himself; there was no way that he would never be able to justify it. I first conceived this idea of getting him a game system as a surprise about half a year ago, when I first realised that EB Games sells refurbished systems. I didn't know if it would ever come to fruition, let alone for our anniversary, but the timing was perfect. (Oh, and Scott: don't worry about never seeing him again. As he set it up, he said, "Wow, now I can have Scott come over here to play!")

Before anyone chokes, I bought everything secondhand, purchased an extended warranty, and yes, I could afford it. I did, after all, deposit the second payment for my book in the bank yesterday morning.

Besides, the absolute pleasure of giving him something that he never expected, not in a million years, was a gift to me.

Shopping

I picked up new leotards, tights, and ballet shoes this morning. My, but these items have risen in price since I last danced. I mean really, thirteen dollars for dance tights? It's twenty for a long-sleeve leotard, for heaven's sake. I know that I'm in adult sizes now, and adult clothes are always more expensive, but still.

I also went anniversary shopping. Muah-hah-hah-hah...

Nerves

I received the copyedited manuscript file of my spellcraft book around one o'clock this afternoon, and I'm nervous about opening it. The copyedit memo was only half a page long (a good sign), and in it the line editor said something about the manuscript reading really well, and that the copy editor's comments reflected that. It does nothing to allay the jitters and nerves, however. So I have this superstitious thing going where I'm cleaning up and doing bits of mending before I settle down to open the file. I might even leave it for tomorrow during the writing jam, because then Ceri will be here and I won't be able to turn into a puddle of whimpering self-pitying goo.

Healing Magic

Now that the new issue of WynterGreene has been released, I've added my review of Robin Rose Bennett's Healing Magic: A Green Witch Guidebook to my on-line collection of reviews. Enjoy.

School Again

I had a tense and stressful week; I won't lie. I spent most of it hanging, waiting for other people to do things so that I could carry on. Little things kept happening that frustrated me, and the effect was cumulative.

Last night was the first CMS class of the season. It was a Level 4 course, which means I'd never taught it before (this is the first time L4 is being offered), but it was with a small group of established students. They made the class deep, inspiring, and fascinating, and it completely turned my mood around. It was a wonderful way to begin another year of teaching.

Thanks, ladies.

And then a Cougar and a Wolf fed me with yummy Pineapple Thai Rice (delicious and so welcome after a day of not eating), and then took me home, where I discovered that Witch Hunter Robin is on YTV Friday nights at 9.30 (alas, by catching the end credits, but now I know for next week!). We've seent he first ten episodes; now we're waiting for the plot to kick in (or so Scott assures us).

Today is the first CMS Level 1 class (new people, new material after a redesign), and then immediately afterwards is the Level 2 class. I'm going to be pretty wiped by the end of the day, me thinks. But there's a birthday party tonight which I will attend come hell or high water, especially since I missed one last night.

Aspiring Writers

Storm God's Bride has some very interesting, informative, and entertaining posts on being an aspiring writer:

Diary of an Aspiring Writer - An Introduction (Terminology and Some Background)

Diary of an Aspiring Writer - Part 1 (The Junkbox of Ideas)

Diary of an Aspiring Writer - Part 2 (Pre-writing, Outlines & Me)

Diary of an Aspiring Writer - Part 3 (Give Me Some Conflict with a Slice of Pain, Please)

And it looks like there are more to come.

According to her definitions, I am a Working Writer. Go me!

(d) none of the above

In response to the Lit Geek quiz ("As a first step to making the world safe for Lit-geeks everywhere, take this quiz to determine if you are a lit-geek"), I received the answer:

"Congratulations, you probably spend your life quoting Shakespeare, and correcting people's grammar."

Wow, when did we get ceiling tiles?

Surprise! Mailbox Joy

I got a large cheque in the mail today, completing the payment for my spellcraft book.

No, I wasn't expecting it at all. I thought it would come near the end of this year, or early next.

Not that I'm arguing; no, not at all. I'm perfectly happy to deposit it now, thanks. After all, there are two of my proposals going to the publication board next week, at least one of which (and ideally both) will be contracted; and there's also the two smaller cheques coming my way for my series editor work on the first two books being released this fall.

Oh, gods. New clothes to replaced the smaller ones I bought last fall that have now worn out. An insurance update. Back brakes for the car.

Unexpected money is always so delicious.

Witches Weekly Questions

Duh. I submitted the questions and then forgot to answer them.

Witches Weekly September 05, 2004: Teachers and Training

This week's questions donated by: Autumn (That's me!)

1. What kind of training (if any) have you had in your chosen spiritual path (workshops, seminary, coven, courses, etc)?

Like most others, I began by reading books and slowly, awkwardly, assembling my own practice. I mainly studied eclectic Wicca and green witchcraft-type subjects. When I got bored of talking to myself, I looked for local classes where I could touch base with others of like mind. That's how I tripped (literally!) into a class with Crescent Moon School (now the Crescent Moon Spiritual Learning Centre). I took the basic survey course just to dip my toes in the water, so to speak, and discovered that not only did I know all this stuff (and more!) really well, I knew it so well that I was overqualified as a basic student. Soon, with the encouragement of my peers, I began to teach with CMS, and offering my own workshops though Le Melange Magique, Canada's largest metaphysical shop.

A few years later I dedicated into the Black Forest Circle and Clan Seminary, thus beginning my formal study of Wicca, built on the firm foundation of my previous five years of solitary study. I obtained my third degree in August of 2003, and finished my seminary work to obtain legal clergy status in the US and most of Canada. I now co-lead my own coven, a new challenge.

I attend lectures and workshops given in the New Age and occult fields by authors and specialists whenever I can. I also read non-stop. You never stop learning, after all.

2. Who have been the people who have influenced you the most along your spiritual path?

My mother, first of all, who taught me to respect others and the world around me. And my clan HPS, who showed me that being tough is important, but so is being open to Spirit.

Judy Harrow, although I've never let her, has also influenced my teaching and spiritual path through writings and her own example.

3. What skills, values, and/or areas of expertise do you seek in a spiritual mentor or teacher?

I asked this because I'm a teacher and I was curious to know what others look for. I look for someone who's confident but not arrogant; someone who can admit mistakes as well as being open-minded, but not a doormat; someone who is well-versed in their area of expertise; someone who is a good communicator, flexible, but disciplined; someone who I can trust; and who has a sense of humour. Do I fit all that? Most of it, I think, and most of the time. Not all at once, I'm afraid. I have bad days like everyone else does. I become frustrated when my students harp on the same issues over and over. I get upset when they phrase things thoughtlessly.

If I turn that question around, here's what I look for in a student: someone who is open-minded; who isn't self-absorbed; who is willing to learn; who actively makes an effort to integrate and apply the knowledge they gain; who understands that a teacher isn't the be-all end-all, and that the teacher is human too; who understands that acquiring skills and knowledge doesn't mean that life improves automatically; who is trustworthy; and who understands that paganism is a way of life, not a means to an end.

Rumour has Joss Whedon directing the third chapter of the X-Men film franchise. Fine by me.

And is anyone else keeping track of the Whedonverse alumni signing up to do voice work on Justice League Unlimited? Gina Torres as Vixen, Morenna Baccarin as Black Canary, Amy Acker as Huntress, and now Nathan Fillion as Vigilante...

(Via WHEDONesque, of course)

After the usual frustration and bureaucratic stupidity which accompanies issues such as this, I have installed my brand-new DSL modem and now have a somewhat faster connection. (The increased speed is nost noticeable when downloading music, thank the gods.) And yes, the phone now works at the same time.

I'm probably still going to ignore you if you call, though.

Wiccan Roots

My review of Philip Heselton's Wiccan Roots: Gerald Gardner and the Modern Witchcraft Revival is up. Be warned: it isn't pretty.

Ps and Qs

One really must remember that the World Wide Web is just that: an inter-connected net of people and documents which criss-cross and lead people to ideas to more people, no matter who they are. And if you post your ideas and opinions to that World Wide Web, eventually the people you talk about will find out somehow.

Case in point: another author has made contact with me, a consequence of accessing my Past Reading List and discovering her book amongst the myriad titles. Robin Rose Bennett, author of Healing Magic, will now be watching for my review to be posted within the week. (I'm relieved to say that it's a positive review.)

What you say will always come back to you in some way. Beware. Or, alternatively, post more about what you read, and you too may be visted by the authors whose work you enjoy.

(If you're Robert Newcomb and you read this: I'm sure you're very proud of what you've written, and your sales and subsequent books reflect your concept of success. I, on the other hand, find your style and work not to my taste and standards. You're in decent company, though; I can't stand Stephen King, either, and he's had some success in the publishing field.)

Oh, The Pain

I haven’t been this disgusted by a book in a long, long time.

I picked up a second-hand copy of Robert Newcomb’s The Fifth Sorceress a couple of months ago, and I finally began reading it last week.

It’s dreadful.

Every character is described from head to toe. Their emotions are described in detail. The environment is described in painstaking detail as well, down to the colour of the marble used in the walls of the palace. The first hundred and twenty pages are a set-up where characters talk about the past two hundred years, with phrases such as, “As you know, Tristan, blah blah blah ,” simply in order to have the last two-thirds of the book make sense. If an author has to do that, it means s/he hasn’t plotted carefully enough, or there ought to have been a prequel setting it up correctly. Newcomb should have set the first third of the novel two hundred years ago, so that the reader could have experienced it first-hand, rather than in repeatedly dull exposition as revealed to the young protagonist.

Worse, it’s the age-old wizards vs sorceresses storyline. If handled well, this plot can work just as any other plot. In Newcomb’s hands, however, it’s dumbed down to all-magic-wielding-women-are-evil, and-men-are-noble-enough-to-take-vows-to-never-do-harm. All the sorceresses have wicked and depraved sexual appetites, a by-product of working with dark magic. It wasn’t hard to figure out what gets Newcomb all excited, believe me. A woman with a whip. Every time. Oh, and you can tell the sorceresses are the Bad Guys: they all have staggering beauty with an edge of evil, he tells us over and over again, and they all have long fingernails and perfect enormous breasts. And they use men like Kleenex.

There is no character development anywhere. We are always told, we never discover for ourselves. The entire narrative is superficial. And that, Dear Readers, is unforgivable. I could take the whole evil staggeringly-beautiful-sorceresses thing if the narrative style had depth or any other sort of redeeming quality.

I threw it across the room last night. It’s rare that I don’t read a book to its end, just to give it a chance. (Come to think of it, I threw Terry Goodkind's Wizard's First Rule across the room as well for the very same reasons when I was only fifty pages in, lo these many years ago when it was first released.) Before I threw it, though, I skipped around the last two-thirds of the book looking for more interesting scenes, and found all of three (interestingly enough, between the protagonist’s abducted sister and the sorceresses). I also found a lot of the main character crying “You’ll pay for this,” and immersing himself in self-loathing for not preventing the first coup of the sorceresses’ Master Plan (which ought to have been either the beginning of the novel or the end, but instead is buried somewhere in the middle after interminable and unnecessary set-up).

As a treat and a warning, here’s a sample of the writing style:

He turned to check on Shailiha as she lay sleeping. Her impending pregnancy did little to disturb her great beauty. Her long, golden hair and her tall, exquisite form had come directly from her mother, Queen Morganna. But her hazel eyes, sensuous mouth, and happy, compassionate nature were all her own. He shook his head sadly, thinking of how little Shailiha and her twin brother Tristan knew of their ultimate potential. How much had been kept from them both, and how it had broken his heart every day to have to keep such secrets from them. He cast his eyes to the valley far below, and farther out to the capital city of Tammerland, which had been his home for over three hundred years. The view was spectacular. If this was where Tristan always came to be alone, the old one could understand why.

“Impending pregnancy?” Ye gods, that’s unforgivable. "Queen Morganna?" We know who the queen is, and that Shailiha is her daughter; why not simply say "from her mother?" And that foreshadowing about how these two characters have potential they do not (cannot! oh, the pain and sorrow!) know of? It would be fine if this was the only mention. BUT IT ISN’T – Newcomb goes out of his way to mention it EVERY FIVE PAGES.

Bad writing. Bad book. I'm going to go read some Baker's 12 to take the taste out of my mouth.

I'm back from my weekly bookstore stint. I'm becoming mildly alarmed at my lack of energy and focus in general. Reading don't interest me; writing doesn't interest me; life in general just isn't sparking enough to turn the engine over and get the system going again.

Signed up and paid for twice-weekly ballet classes today. That might help.

Not Yet Real

can't think; holding first copy of first book I edited in my hands

Goddess -- it's there, the foreword I wrote for it. I'm in print. I'm quoted on the back.

There are a couple of formatting errors, and I'll never truly love it after all the stress, and because, as t! put it, I can't see the product for all the duct tape...

but it's here.

And in eight months I'll holding my own book, mine, from start to finish.

It's not yet real. But it's more real than yesterday, or last week. And it will be even more real when I see it on the shelf at the bookstore, and when I get my final cheque for my work on this particular book.

It's out. I'm a consulting editor, for real and for true, now.

I'm going to sit down with a stack of Post-It Notes and mark all the sections and rituals that are mine.

Proposal Number Two for the Pub Board

I just submitted another proposal, this one for a book on how to walk the path of the green witch in contemporary society. I like it a lot. The project, I mean, not the proposal; the proposal still lacks a certain something, but I have so many ideas and bits of information in my head that winnowing them down to single inclusive chapter headings was a challenge. It's hard to get ten chapter headings to accurately reflect the piles of diverse notes in a notebook.

(Yes, suffering students of mine: writing a proposal is like creating an outline for your term papers. Exactly like that, in fact. You see? I hate doing it too. It's a necessary evil, however, as there's no way to write a cohesive, well-structured project without one. I can't number the amount of times I referred to the detailed outline as submitted in my proposal for the spellcraft book. It kept me on track and focused.)

This proposal doesn't precisely describe the phantom of the book that exists in sketch and scribble form in my notebook, or in my mind, but it does describe an interesting book nonetheless. I like it; it's not perfect, and I'm not wholly satisfied, but then I never could be, so I might as well like what I have.

For those keeping score -- yes, that's two projects I've submitted to the pub board now: the spellcasting throughout the seasons book, and this way of the green witch book. Let's see if either are accepted before we worry about deadlines and conflicts. If the publisher wants them both badly enough, we'll schedule them at different times so that everyone is happy.

Secret

Apart from the piles of meat and veggies, I found two boxes of Peek Frean Bourbon Creme cookies while in Ontario. These aren't a regular product sold in single boxes any more; they're a special edition thing that pops up irregularly then vanishes again, and never in Quebec, for some reason. (It's probably the old British connection that sours the relationship. You lost the cliff. Get over it and stock my British biscuits already.) They are the most divine cookie Peek Frean has ever done,the first creme biscuit Peek Frean created, launched in 1910. There are one or two in the Peek Frean Assorteed Creme selection, but there are never enough, and besides, they become tainted by the neighbouring Fruit Cremes. They are best packaged with others of their kin, the creme soft and fresh, the chocolate-bourbon biscuit light and crisp.

And no, they're all mine. Even HRH does not know where they are hidden.

(Oh, gods -- have just discovered that Peek Frean is now a Nabisco/Kraft company. Since when? I could cry. Lo, how the mighty have fallen.)

Night Owling

I had another wretched night last night; I didn't get to sleep till three, and woke up at four, then five, then seven... I have a total of four hours sleep in me and I'm feeling a bit queasy.

The good news is that while I was wide awake between ten and three, I got lots of prep work done for this new green witch proposal. Although that's being sidelined today, as there are more emergency edits awaiting my check-over, and although they're due Wednesday night I can't work on them tomorrow, as I'm doing my weekly stint as book person downtown at the store.

If any of you read Publisher's Weekly, Adams Media and Provenance Press have a lovely little sidebar in the article on New Age presses in the latest issue, wherein I am mentioned by name! Whee!

Welcome Back

We're home! Our fridge is now stocked with meat and fresh vegetables courtesy of the markets and supermarkets of Southern Ontario (why, you ask? Simply because it's cheaper than the meat and fresh veggies here in YUL), our cats love us because my parents sent home a wonderful new bag of kibble for them, and it's about six degrees cooler in Montreal than it was in the GTA.

Whew. The six hour drive gets longer and longer every time, even with the enjoyable presence of Prospero's Daughter in the car with us.

After setting the fire alarm off for over fifteen minutes (and no fire engines arriving to check out the call, I feel so safe, thank you very much), the plumbers got the new boiler installed. As of around four this afternoon, water now comes out of the hot water tap.

However, it is not hot. In fact, it is the exact opposite of hot. Yes, indeed, more ice water! How kind of them. We really didn't have enough before.

I know, I know; it's electric, it needs to work up a full tank of hot water before the tap issues liquid of a warmish nature.

Come on; let's just leave for Oakville, damn it. At the moment there is absolutely nothing to keep me here but warm purring cats. And at the other end there await Jumble cookies, hot water, and delicious food.

Still no hot water.

I washed my hair in ice-cold water yesterday morning. I had an ice-cold sponge bath this morning. It is not bracing. It is irritating. Poor HRH is itching for a hot shower, because cold sponge baths don't do it for him after a long day of landscaping, either. Three days of no hot water is not only irresponsible on the part of the landlord, it's barbaric. We are thankful that we're staying with my parents in Oakville this weekend, where I will defintely soak in a long warm bath at some point, and HRH will likely have a shower twice daily to make up for the lack of really feeling clean recently.

The power has also gone off at odd times without warning over the past three days. I'd love to chalk it up to the hot water boiler being replaced, but as we still have no hot water, I rather doubt it. It's been frustrating, though, because I've either been working on the computer, or we've been in bed asleep. Normally this wouldn't be a problem (except for the lack of wake-up alarm the next morning) except for the fact that our fire alarm is electric, and beeps loudly and violently when the power surges. Yes, that's right: if there's an electrical fire, we won't know about it because our fire alarm won't be working. How stupid is that?

I spent the morning arguing with Bell and Sympatico webs ites, trying to upgrade to DSL basic service; the web sites are contradictory, crash frequently no matter what browser I use, and don't tell you certain key bits of information that you require as you go. I finally gave up and called a Real Person, a huge concession on my part because I hate talking to people on the telephone. It was such a success that I changed my long-distance plan, and finally got rid of the lingering being-charged-for-an-unlisted-number-when-the-phone-books-clearly-list-it issue that's been the bane of my Bell customer service relationship for the past two years. Gods, it's so good to actually get a customer service agent who knows what to do to fix a problem. He even gave me a confirmation number, something which the last two idiots didn't do.

I'm still blue, restless but anti-social, and now I'm cranky about it as well.

I'm doing preliminary research for a book proposal on green witchcraft; anyone have a good title recommendation for a book on plant devas? (And serious books, please; no fluffy, elves-of-the-flowers stuff. I'm serious.) Eliot Cowan's Plant Spirit Medicine is already on reserve for me at the store. Anything else?

And here's something I found along my researchy travels this morning: Breatharianism. A bunny told me about this a couple of years ago, and I chalked it up to those wacky New Agers taking God's love a wee bit too far, figuring the'd eventually die out and that would be the end of it. Turns out it's an actual philosophical movement, and still very active.

It would never work for me; I love chocolate too much. And wine. And fresh bread, biscuits, and scones. And a lovely, rare, thick steak. And grilled mushrooms. And sushi.

Hmm... perhaps this not-interested-in-food phase I've been going through is letting up?

Harvest

The very first book in the series I'm editing, shipped out to me this morning!

Just over twelve months ago, I started working on this project, helping to define the series and vet authors and proposals. It's been a ride, with ups and downs, and here we are, with the first book of the series shipping out to bookstores everywhere within the next two weeks. I'm told that the chain purchase numbers are high when compared to other series lauches, so that shows confidence in the series and the new imprint as well.

I am so looking forward to holding the Formerly Undead Manuscript in my hands, in real book form. The only drawback to this is that somewhere along the printing process, somehow my name was accidently dropped from the foreword I wrote. After all the hell associated with this title, though, I'm suprised at nothing, and nothing will upset me, because this book is DONE and OVER. (I'm reminded of bad dress rehearsal, successful opening night, The book is good.) Apparently our logo didn't come out in colour on the spine of the book, either, and my contact is going to go talk to the pertinent department to figure out how in the future we can at least get the "P" to appear in red, because the black and white just doesn't cut it.

The astrology book is in galleys, and that will be done at the end of the month. Then the next one is my spellcraft book in spring. (That's the one the whole team is waiting for, apparently. Does my heart good.)

And... my seasons solo title book is currently waiting for the next acquisitions meeting in mid-September. We're still coming up with strikes on every proposal for the next book in the series, though, so I think I'll finish the proposal for that subject I was doodling a month ago and send it in. Why not?

My dreams last night were full of bakeries, trying to remember what my high school grad date’s last name was, and Hellboy stuff.

More stressful than all the action/mission elements, however, was wanting more Canterbury Jumbles than the bakery had, andhaving to settle for fewer. Actually, I settled for fewer of everything I ordered. I'm not sure why it was so pressing to order large amounts of all the different kinds of pastries and sweets, but there must have been a reason. Cricket showed up and played with the three women who ran the bakery, which didn't seem odd at all.

Go figure. I'm fine in the midst of dreams featuring danger and action, but confront me with a slight hitch at the bakery and I get all twisted up inside.

They did accept my Visa, however, which was a relief.