author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Sorry for the cliche, but it's not. It's an announcement that I'm working on a new short story--yeah, I do that sometimes--but that it doesn't have a title yet or has even been added to my manuscript-and-submissions-logging database, because I've been all hell-bent to get the web interface for said database up and running so I can finally use something easier than phpMyAdmin across several tables to enter new records.

Ah, HTML. HTML, PHP, MySQL. Those lovely procrastination tools that keep on justifying themselves.

Just to keep this entry from being a total waste, behold! I give you an open call for submissions to an anthology: She Is Such A Geek. Gals only. Personal essays requested. All forms of Geekdom welcome. I think. Don't ask me, I'm just passing on the link. Same with the person whose web page I've linked to. So, make sure you note the email address of the actual editors of the actual anthology; don't bug Jed Hartman about it.

Four chapters into the outline. Only four. Why only four? Well, those four chapters are already written (I mean, revised; the rest of the book is all NaNo-draft). So, writing them into the outline was a matter of observation, not planning. And observation led to certain distractions, word-and-line-level edits, and the taking of notes. Such as:

• The symbolism of the pen and journal being like a sword and shield. Example: They are Sasha's defense/comfort when visiting Anubia. Example: Magically charged and returned to her, they are like quest items given to the hero of a fantasy story.
• The real reason no one at school tries to mess with Anubia: they all know something Sasha only just found out. They know that Anubia has killed. This is also part of why no one at school likes her much. Not that her being a lesbian and a witch help much, not in this small Alabama town.
• I need to decide on an actual fountain pen for Sasha. If Uncle "Traveling" Matt brought it back from Vienna, you can bet there's an appropriately fancy and expensive Viennese fountain pen model in real life. (Yes, Uncle Matt's nickname is from Fraggle Rock. Whyever not?)
• If you mention the Salem Witch Trials at the beginning of a book about witchcraft, the witch trial motif had better show up later in the book. Even if only in flashback. Maybe to do with how the town treated Anubia after the murder/self-defense episode. (Note to self: How the heck did she not get lynched?)
• Anubia and Uncle Matt share some marked conversational characteristics. The bombast, for starters. The pompous know-it-all attitude. Only when he does it, it's charming. When she does it, it's obnoxious. From Sasha's point of view, anyway.

Meanwhile, a couple recommendations. If you are sitting down to edit your first novel, it helps to fortify yourself with a calm-smelling candle and a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream and black rum. Well, it helps me, anyway.

Well, periodontist, actually. But it was at my dentist's office.

Yes yes yes long time no blog what a slacker what a bum talk about procrastination. Indeed. House painting, house cleaning, community knitting, Cessna flying, guest preparations, Saints watching, and all that jazz. Excuses, excuses.

Back to the dentist's. By the way, you would think that one could get some writing done while lying abed in post-op mode. You would think, wouldn't you? Uh-huh. Anyway, Friday my mouth got hacked into, in the service of keeping my teeth for my old age. Apparently it's a bad thing for tooth longevity when there's no thick, pink "attached tissue" in front of your tooth, but only the thin, darker, capillery-filled "movable tissue." And they have ways of making your mouth conform. It involves lots of local anasthetic, scapels, and stitches, and no eating of chewy things for days and days after.

This makes road trip novels like Neil Gaiman's American Gods a bad choice of post-op reading material. I mean, the characters keep stopping for hamburgers. Oh my sweet everloving Deities I want a hamburger.

Anyway, sitting in the dentist's chair and trying to ignore the sharp things. The periodontist says, "You can totally just close your eyes and go elsewhere, you know. I won't be offended. No. Seriously. Go paint your house or something." So I closed my eyes and tried once more to listen in on my characters' conversation again. I don't know what's been taking me so long about that--I guess not enough long, sustained time staring in panic at my computer. So apparently oral surgery is good for invoking the same sort of panic, I guess.

Brian: "Oh my God, Mike! You're alive!"

Mike: "Well, yeah. But you knew that."

Brian: "But that was a dream... wasn't it?"

Brian: [chuckles] "Little bro, you always were in denial."

That plus a few tips from Mike on how he actually would act in this scene, and I think we're rolling again.

(After that, the hovering-over-the-Puget-Sound visualization sort of morphed into standing on the red pedestrian bridge at the mouth of the 17th Street Canal and watching the pelicans preen themselves, and I got a little teary. Which is not wise when someone is sticking sharp things in your mouth. And now I have to add "Nostalgia" to the growing list of categories invoked by this entry. These entries really need to get a bit more focused.)

Meanwhile, Cate's coming to visit tomorrow. Excitement! More house cleaning! A trip to the airport! A trip to the other airport! Goths Having Tea! And early morning writing sessions while everyone else is still sleeping, if dailiness is to be cultivated. W00t!

More later, possibly with pictures.

Not a lot to report today. It's Saturday, a day for which I had a lot of good intentions that all got shoved aside in order to reread Harry Potter and the Order Of The Phoenix. Now, at last, I am ready to start on Half-Blood Prince. Which is good, because I'm sure John will be eager to read it as soon as I'm done hogging it.

Got a little ways into Chapter 9 today, which began not at all like I expected. See, I had this lovely, romantic vision for the segue between chapters. At the end of 8, they fall in the water and Brian discovers he can breathe down there. He smiles up at Amy through the water, and, after a moment of shock on Amy's part, they kiss at the opening of 9. This, of course, leads to happy sexy stuff happening for most of the chapter.

Only they didn't want to do it that way. Instead, Amy decided that Brian must be drowning--you know, the kind of conclusion a normal person would come to--and ended up trying to drag him back to shore. This would be more than just "a moment of shock." This would be fully sustained minute-long panic. But, hell, it's not like Amy knows she's in a fantasy novel.

She does eventually realize what's going on, and she engages in a fun little spot of dialogue with Brian, but now the momentum is wrecked. So I'm left trying to figure out how to get my bewildered but happily bantering characters to hit the next plot point.

There's some great lines, though. There's the bit where Brian says, "Put me back in," reminding me delightfully of MacDonald's The Light Princess (coincidentally also Chapter 9). And then there's the bit where Amy says, "OK, but how am I supposed to marry a fish?" Damn good question, if you ask me.

And so to bed, and, with luck, dreams that will make things clear. But first, a couple of chapters of Harry Potter 6. W00t.

So John's all GenConning right now, which means it's just me and the cats in the house. Boring. Quiet. A little lonely. But, you know, keeping busy. For instance, right after I got home from bringing him to the airport, I went back to the spinning wheel.

I got the wheel a few years ago when I finally succumbed to the temptation of Shuttles's store-wide 10% while-in-class discount. I was taking the Beginning Wheel-Spinning class at the time, which was super cool in that every student got to actually borrow a wheel for the whole week between classes. This gave me a chance to fall head over heels in love with the Schact double treadle. (My Gods, I'd forgotten how expensive it was. Damn good thing we were a two-income household at the time.) So I succumbed, and the wheel came home with me for good, along with a bottle of oil, a threading hook, and a Lazy Kate.

What also came home with me was a whole big mess of white wool, which it had been my homework to wash and card, and a smaller mess of variegated blue wool, which we'd all dyed together on the last day of class. And I am here to tell you that I still haven't spun it all. I started, and I also started in on some two-ply fingering weight yarn made from "The Beast" (that gray-brown-white wool of no particular lineage which Shuttles sells for something like $.49/lb) which I am proud to say has made it into two thirds of a lacy sock. But after a few months I kinda slacked off.

So now I'm trying to finish off these unfinished projects. Today I carded and spun a whole bunch of the blue stuff, and once it's all spun up I'll ply it together with the white stuff, which will look super goofy and'll probably make a nice pom-pom hat someday. After that, I'll have to figure out how to deal with the whole heel/toe reinforcement thread issue so I can finish the sock. Maybe I'll just skip it. Anyway, I have to finish knitting the darn thing so I can finally get The Beast off my fourth bobbin.

Right. So, lots of time spinning. And spinning is a mindless activity. Keep the treadles moving in a nice, even rhythm; keep the fiber coming in nice, consistent draws. Stop now and again to move the thread onto the next hook of the flyer. Mindless. You would think, with all that mind freed up, a writer could totally use that time to brainstorm her novel.

You'd think so, wouldn't you?

I don't know, maybe it's like meditation. You have to practice that kind of thing. As it is, when I knit or crochet I think math, and when I spin, I think not at all. Well, maybe I think, "Ugh, this blue dye is getting all over my fingers," or, "Yuck, all this lanolin is starting to gross me out." Or, "Damn, this yarn is over-spun. Good thing I'm going to ply it."

But that's all. I try to start myself thinking things like, "OK, here it is--Amy and Todd having a bit of a heart-to-heart, and Russ comes in and starts being an ass. How's that dialogue going to go?" And then I stop thinking. It's like I'm trying to turn the ignition and get the car to go, but all I'm hearing is whirr-whirr-whirr and no vroom. I'm gonna have to push this sucker uphill, 'cause that engine just ain't starting.

And yet, I put off writing and hit the spinning wheel, or the knitting needles, telling myself I'll think about the story while I'm fibercrafting. I'm priming the engine, I'm brainstorming, I'm getting ready to write.

Really!

Maybe it just has to be learned.

Wow. Not a heck of a lot of novel gets edited in an hour and a half. I got through about... three pages. Three well-marked pages, and lots of accompanying mustn't forgets in my notebook.

I have realized that A) the first scene in my novel sucks, but B) it has to stay, so C) I may end up utterly rewriting it.

This must be why the fate of so many 1950s-era story drafts was to end as a crumpled-up ball on the floor. Not unlike the fate of several clinically depressed writers, sadly enough.

Well, more tomorrow. I'll be getting on a plane and heading off to Seattle. Which is fortunate, because the first scene in this novel involves a plane taking off at Seatac. I mustn't forget to notice exactly how the preflight briefing speech goes, exactly what Seatac's geographical relationship to Seattle is (with reference to I-5), and exactly how (and whether) the name of that aiport town is supposed to be punctuated. ("Sea-Tac"? "Seatac"? "SeaTac"? Er...)

In a way, that means my vacation is a paid vacation. I would be more jolly about that fact if I knew I actually would get paid, of course. But, as noted in the previous entry, you don't get contracted pre-novel until after you've novelled pre-contract. Whee!

In other news, I've started working on the definitive PDF template for archiving Neverending Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Stories. And I finally got a working cron job in place on that site and scheduled to prune the deleted items list every morning at five past midnight. Yes, it's procrastination, but it's productive procrastination, so shut up.

As an avoidance technique, I am eating marshmallows.

They're very yummy marshmallows, hand-crafted by the good people of Whole Foods. Faintly flavored with vanilla. Big and square and poofy.

But they're marshmallows.

This is on beyond zebra. This is pathetickness cubed. This is... stupid.

It doesn't help that I purchased a small bottle of rum today, and am now thinking of dolloping it in hot chocolate. With the marshmallows.

(Tea. Just keep thinking tea thoughts. Dilmah darjeeling. Yes.)

I had met
my quota
of words
due yesterday

which accomplishment
I probably
should have blogged
at the time

Forgive me
I was tired last night
and my head was hurting
and I had nothing left to say

Tuesday, Kandybar uttered a cry of lamentation:

Man, Niki's caught up with me while I was cavorting around the country side.... And I won't get to write until tonight! *sob*

Looks like you're still leading me by about 2K - guess I'd better put in another 3K day just to cut that lead a bit! *maniacal laughter*

Thursday was supposed to be an all-writing, all-the-time day... but it started with a trip with Uno and Null to the vet for their semi-annual kitty check-up, after which I came home and just about died. By the time I recovered it was time to go grocery shopping for cat food fixin's and fruitcake ingredients, and the onerous tasks of mixing up homemade cat food and processing various types of dried fruit (about which, more later) left me with just about enough energy to declare a moratorium on actual work for the night.

Now I'm behind - well, not really, not if I get to 28K tonight and stick to my 2K/day pace - but I'm no longer ahead of schedule - and Kandybar's past 33K!

*Whiiiiine*

Why, look! I appear to have acquired a NaNoWriMo Enemy! And I wasn't even looking for one! Well. Time to kick some butt, that's what I say.

(Meanwhile, I need a new vet. One that isn't afraid of my cat. Any takers?)

1. Just reserved a table for 4 at the Boulder Dinner Theater in January.They're performing Cats. Yes. The Cats. As in, Weber meets Eliot. As in, "Macavity's not there." At the Boulder Dinner Theater.

If it weren't for this novel, I'd say January 20 couldn't come soon enough.

2. Going to visit my sister-in-law in Seattle in December. I like Seattle. Maybe I should make a list of places to observe in order to fix some detail inaccuracies in my 2003 NaNoWriMo novel.

3. Didn't write a single word since I woke up this morning. So that was my day off.