author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

At right: Uno argues his usefulness in helping John re-assemble our bachelor-pad-style entertainment center, which we'd disassembled in order to paint the last living room wall. Meanwhile, I discover twenty-year-old addictions hiding underneath all that dust.

Sometimes, to break out of a rut or rediscover your passions, you just have to rearrange the furniture. We've been spending a lot of time on the couch since moving its L shape to face west and south. It's just so comfortable now. With the entertainment center against the west wall, we can watch TV or manipulate the CD-player aspect of the PS2 by remote from the kitchen table, and wires no longer lie in walkways. The desktop computer has its own little nitch, the up-lamp is out of the way, the modem and router are easier to get to--the living room is just more livable.

At least, for now. Give us a few months, and we'll be sick of it again, ready to rearrange the furniture once more.

We're in heavy-duty clean-up mode not just because of wanting to get at and paint walls, not just because of wanting to rearrange our living space, but also because of an impending visit. Someone John met at GenCon, a lovely gal by the name of Cate, will be staying with us during the third week of September. If she's able to find the futon in the second bedroom and even sleep on it without risking a broken limb getting to it, that would be considered a bonus.

Of course we want to show Cate the sights of Boulder. Afternoon tea at the Dushanbe Teahouse, for instance, is obligatory. And since the best sights of any mountain town are seen from above, we've got a flight in a Cessna 172 planned for Thursday morning the 22nd. Which means I need to get back up to speed in a hurry. My log book shows exactly two flights in the past year. Two hours with an instructor back in February, and an overnight cross country to Rock Springs, Wyoming, in September of last year.

As of now we can add to that an hour with an instructor today. Whee! I can still fly! Good morning, November 64548. Pleased to meet you. How's your engine feeling today? Full throttle for cruise, huh? Tch. Oooh, nice taxi steering...

I'll be doing some solo practice on Monday, since we only had time for two of my three takeoffs/landings needed for me to legally take passengers. And then we've got three hours on the 22nd to play, or go to Greeley for lunch, or whatever. And then in October, I've signed up for the mountain course one of the instructors offers. Some ground school, some basics, and then a cross-country from Boulder to Leadville and Glenwood Springs and other scenic points. October is going to be expensive. But it's going to be gorgeous.

So. Flying, cleaning house, moving furniture... Writing! Yes. Well, no rejection letter from WOTC yet, so Drowning Boy is still a priority. Still haven't convinced the brothers Windlow to let me listen in on their reunion conversation. I'm starting to get peeved at them. And October is coming up super-quick, but my read-through of Becoming Sara is still stuck in the middle of Chapter 2, which isn't even to mention that the rewrite stopped at around Chapter 5 and hasn't progressed. Retooled part of some key dialogue last night, though.

I'm. So. Damn. Slow. But hey! I can fly!

Eked out another 500 words, mainly about climbing around in the old gasworks and looking at the skyline across Lake Union. Spent an absurd amount of time scouring Google:Images for just that view. Found it.

First time I visited Gasworks was the summer of '94, my first summer in Seattle. I started my Freshman year a quarter early for reasons I can't quite remember now. Glad I did. Had a couple months' run-up time to get used to campus and dorm life before the autumn wave of incoming Freshmen overloaded the system. Anyway, my floor's Residential Advisor led us all on a July 4th walk down the bike path to the Park, where pretty much the entirety of north Seattle gathered to watch the fireworks going up from across the water. I don't remember the show that well, but I do remember that was also the day of my first Dove bar. Some of us helped out a vendor (again, memory here is hazy) who in turn gave us free product. That was some good.

On the other hand, I can't tell you about my first time going up the Space Needle, because it hasn't happened yet. Typical: we tend not to do the touristy things that happen where we live. Hey, I never did the Jazz Fest until this year, despite spending the first eighteen years of my life in New Orleans. I never did the river tour in Grants Pass. And I still haven't done Six Flags/Elitch Gardens here in Denver. It's almost like we don't actually experience where we're living. Or maybe we're too busy experiencing it from the inside to experience it like an outsider. A tourist might rhapsodize about the view from the top of the Space Needle, but can he tell you about a candlelit Beltane ritual held inside the gasworks?

Not that I can tell you much about that, either. Stupid disintegrating memory.

Yesterday: 300 words on the novel and no web design.

Day Before Yesterday: No novel work. Lots of web design.

Conclusion: My weekend was, on average, only one day long. Can I have a refund?

I have forgotten more about Seattle than I'm comfortable admitting. For instance, the walk down 7th Avenue to the bike path that leads to Gasworks Park. Does the bike path actually T-bar 7th, or is there some street negotiating between the two? How long does it take the bike path to get right down to the docks? How much concrete distance between the Wall Of Death and the water? Aaaargh!

And the sad thing is, I had a chance to refresh my memory back when John and I visited his sister. They went to a gaming session at a friend's house in Wallingford; I walked into the U District from there. I walked around the house on 7th Avenue. But did I go to Gasworks? No. I decided to visit campus instead. I puttered up and down Suzallo-Allen Library. Curse my studious streak! Curses!

(At some point, meanwhile, I'm going to start talking about the novel I plan to write come next National Novel Writing Month, and how it is not going to be a Jasper Fforde rip-off, I swear. But about that, more later.)

Hey, wow, this entry spans the gamut of Abstract Categories, don't it? Maybe I should stop pickin' em.

[Author rereads previous post, shakes head in disgust] Well, that was maudlin. Less of that this time, I think.

Another 500 words today. Some stories, I feel like I'm dragging my characters kicking and screaming from minor crisis to minor crisis. It's not even that they're kicking and screaming; they're sorta sitting there on the ground, doing that "dead weight" thing they teach you to do in women's defense classes, and there's just staring at me balefully while I tug their uncooperative asses towards the next little hump in the story arc. Uphill.

Still, the hill I got to the top of was a good place to be. I'm not displeased with having climbed it. I'd estimate the rewritten chapter is about a third of the way through. It's a sort of three-act chapter, and we made it to the end of the first act, a confrontation that convinces Amy she'll have to leave Brian alone for now. The next act will follow her putting together her new life in Seattle, trying to land a job and figure out what else to do with herself--no trivial task, given that her entire reason for moving here is now agressively absenting itself from her life.

The bit of novel I'm entering is actually kind of dangerous. I figured I'd avoid turning Brian into a poor-pitiful-me whiner when I chose Amy's point of view. But she runs the risk of whining her way through the chapter, too. Poor pitiful me, my boyfriend wants nothing to do with me, I'm all alone miles from my family, I'm having trouble finding a job... Damn. My mother could tell you with some confidence that I've always had a tendency to write whiny narrators. I mean, narrators that could give Thomas Covenant a run for his money in the self-loathing and self-pitying races. Go on, ask her about "The View From The Levee" sometime. (I swear I'll redeem that story someday...)

I suspect the way to get a character out of its downward spiral into self-indulgent moping is to throw plot at it. Throw events at that character that force it out of its doldrums and into action. I'd already decided Amy would take her pity-fest for a walk down to Gasworks, and that she'd see Brian there in the middle of his own little wallow--if I look at that eavesdropping incident as an opportunity to throw plot at the narrator, I think it'll move along nicely.

In other news, John and I and some friends just got back from witnessing Johnny Depp's portrayal of Willie Wonka. What can I say but Oh YEAH. I think Roald Dahl would have been very proud.

Five thousand words. Ho ho ho. More like 800. But that's more than I tackled both yesterday and the day before combined, so, moving in the right direction, right?

Fact is, I got all distracted with web design. I created the web page that'll pull up blog entries over at the new site, fiddled with the structure and the style sheet, and made categories and manuscripts linkable. It's still butt ugly, OK, but then I haven't finished fiddling. And look! Linkable categories! Manuscripts that aren't all NaNoWriMo novels (because I write other stuff too)! Blog sorting that doesn't set weird cookies on your machine! Duuuuude!

Not, of course, that the screen shot above quite does the page itself justice (or quite does anything else besides take up a crapload of space in this blog entry), but then you can't see the real thing just yet. It's all hidden in a password protected directory, accessible only as follows...

AuthType Basic
AuthName "Niki's Weblog: Staging Area"
AuthUserFile "/yadda/yadda/yadda/passwordfile"
AuthGroupFile /yadda/yadda/yadda/groupfile
Require group Me

Back to the novel. OK. Maybe I've blogged about this bit before, but--this novel is set in a very specific locale, one that actually exists, for the most part. My characters all live in the boarding house I lived in for all but my first two quarter-years of college. They go to the same college I went to. They're living in the same city. Zoom back in: same cafeteria I worked at, same Gasworks Park I took walks to, same boarding house on 7th Ave.

They do say, write what you know. Often, I do. They say, write your memories. If you lived through childhood you have plenty material for all the fiction you can write in a lifetime. And I did, and I do.

They do not say, expect said memories to bite you in the ass when you begin to write about them.

I'm moving my characters around the memories of that house--Brian here, Todd there, Amy at the kitchen table--and then who comes down the stairs but that gal whose stoneware I broke in the oven (sorry) or that guy whose radio got stolen by that other guy who proceeded to expire in his bed while I was out of town, or maybe the two guys who moved in from the dorms and played White Wolf roleplaying games with me and two other friends all night long every other weekend. And because not all memories are pleasant, here comes L----o slinking around the corner with that smirk on his face, and there's the new landlord and his smarmy son who I swear was just pissing us all off deliberately in order to encourage us to move out so he could move his friends in, and that guy who kept coming back to dig through our mailbox after he stayed only two months rent-free and got kicked out for the rent-free part. And of course Russ in the novel, that needling twerp who recognizes no form of "that's enough" as long as he's still amused, he never wore any face but that of that guy he was conciously based on.

And because friendships don't always stay sweet, there's the role-playing game gang again only this time no one's talking to anyone anymore, and laughter that used to warm the heart now cuts to the bone without changing one audible note.

And because forgiveness happens, there's some of that gang again on the phone or at the IHOP when John and I drove up from Oregon on a visit. And there's the guy Russ is based on, who really wasn't all that bad all the time, blasting Enya out the window to compete with the noise of the party across the street, and him and I sitting on the awning over the front door and laughing at them all.

Damn. Nostalgia strikes again. Soundbytes aren't really representative samples, no more so here than on Fox News. The people briefly and non-identifyingly described above, they all really exist (except the dead guy, anymore), and none of them are as bad as some of those sadder or angrier paragraphs make them out to be (except L----o, whom John met once and dubbed "The Creep" because, well, he was). With just those parenthetical exceptions, I miss them all.

Well, not the landlord's kid. And not the digging through the mail guy. He was just... wrong. But mostly the rest of them... yeah.

I was going to end by naming one of them and begging him to email me, because, Gods bless his parents, his name is So Damn Common that Google avails me nothing, and the constant failure to find even the smallest lead is painful. But now I'm shy of it; naming even one name of that crew might make the rest identifiable, and who knows but that they wouldn't thank me for it. So. I'll end with some keywords, instead. Dude, you know who you are. Talk to me. It's been too long.

Werewolf: The Apocalypse. Also known as "garou." Pink Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon. Algernon, from The Importance of Being Earnest. NiN and that comic about the cat-girl. Bangor, Maine. The Talking Heads: Remain In Light. Tori Amos on the Dew Drop Inn tour (happy birthday). And, of course, there's always "Well, I've been to France..." (And for anyone who still needs to be told Seattle and the University of Washington, y'all really haven't been paying attention, have you?)

I feel like I'm writing my high-school senior yearbook "dot-dots" all over again. Look what comes of mining college memories to write a novel about college students. They oughtta post warnings.

Wow, nothing like a deadline shouted out to the four corners of the Internet to make me completely come to a standstill.

Well, either that, or it was attempting to get by on five hours of sleep a night. Wednesday morning I felt great; Thursday morning I felt great but I needed a nap in the afternoorn; and Friday morning I woke up with a sore throat. The problem with sick is, it may keep you home, but it keeps you from doing all the things you'd like to stay home from work to do. Dammit.

So I'm just wrapping up Chapter 6 Mk II, which contains nowhere near as much original NaNoDraft material as I thought it would, but whose almost-but-not-quite sex scene is a whole lot less clumsy than it was first time around. Plus there's more assholey Russ goodness. You may send me mocking emails if you wish, but I'll have you know that Russ can mock your lights out. (I have this secret but unlikely hope that the real-life person upon whom Russ is modeled will someday read this book, recognize himself, and send me nasty letters about it. But then I have lots of little vengeance fantasies running around in my sick little head. Oh yes. Locked up in my head where it's safe.)

There shall be more over the course of the morning, and then in the afternoon I'll have to hit the other projects for a few hours. I took all weekend off from the official manuscript of NaNoEdMo 2005, the better to work on this puppy right here (for all the good that did me), which means I'm no longer ahead of schedule. And then there's this short story I want to put in the mail by the tenth. Excuses, excuses. Yes indeed.