Safe in Utah. Free WiFi across the street at the Starbucks. Cold and snowy, but good company and (I hope) good movies. Sundance, charge! Already, the muse stirs. Whee!
Re-watching the Firefly series in preparation for getting Serenity on DVD. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I wish I could write dialogue like Joss Whedon. Sigh.
And on the surprising good news front, I got an email from HP informing me that my laptop was shipped yesterday and I should get it tomorrow AM. I don’t know if this pre-26th shipping is due to the emails of ire I sent, or if the part they were waiting on got in sooner. I like to think it was my squeaky-wheel-ness, but since they haven’t listened to anything I’ve said up to this point, that seems unduly optimistic.
It means that I should have my laptop back in time to take to Sundance–as long as FedEx doesn’t let me down. I’m assuming the malfunction won’t be fixed, but at least I’ll have it. I’d rather have a spontaneously shutting down laptop than no laptop in Utah. I’ll just have to do what I was doing before and engage in tons o’ compulsive saves and frequent back-ups to my USB stick. And hey, they could astonish me and have actually fixed the thing–or, shocker of all shocks, decided to replace it.
Okay, it’s an SFWA-related email, but I’m still all fangirl squeeing about getting correspondence from her. I read Dreamsnake when I was in sixth grade and was absolutely blown away by it.
So, uh, yeah, the email was to let me know that the SFWA press release I submitted for the Writers for Relief charity anthology (edited by jackzodiac) is up and will be linked to the SFWA Pressbook tomorrow.
My heart’s still all pitter-patter about getting an email from Vonda McIntyre . . .
Watched Aeon Flux last night, courtesy Netflix, the MTV series, not the Charlize Theron movie. I haven’t seen the movie yet, being more than a little dubious about it.
I remember seeing the shorts on MTV’s Liquid TV, and then some of the series episodes, and wondering whether they would make more sense if I saw all of them in order. The answer to that is “no.” Viewing them in proper sequence, first to last, does not in any way make them an iota more coherent.
However, I really like them, despite or perhaps because of the extreme weirdness. Although “weird” doesn’t do justice to the profoundly freaky-bizarre experience that is Aeon Flux–beautiful and strangely disjointed, with ultra-bizarre technology and unnaturally graceful characters a la anime, but without the usual anime trappings.
I’m still ruminating on the episodes, replaying some of the (disturbing) imagery in my mind, and luxuriating/speculating on the subtext and dialogue. Lines like: “I’m not in the habit of arguing about the color of red herrings!”; “We won. We must have been right”; “Learn from your mistakes, so that one day you can repeat them precisely”; and “That which does not kill us, makes us stranger” left me glassy-eyed and awed.
Although I do wonder what it says about my sensibilities on romance that I find Aeon Flux’s and Trevor Goodchild’s love/hate, quasi-BDSM, obsessive-dysfunctional, manipulative-merciful-murderous relationship incredibly sexy. Eh, then again, I already knew I was a bit twisted.
“You’re hurting my hand! …Normally, I like that. But this time I can’t reciprocate your feelings.”
Also got an email from Jason Rennie of The Sci Phi Show, letting me know that he’s going to use the Escape Pod podcast of “The Life and Times of Penguin” in a forthcoming episode. The focus topic will be an examination of “The Problem of Evil,” which I am absolutely tickled by. I hope Voltaire would have been proud of, or at least amused by, my homage to Candide.
fosteronfilm and I went to the advance screening of Underworld: Evolution last night. The publicist people got the Netherworld folks to show up in vampire and werewolf costumes and roam through the audience beforehand. The werewolves especially really got into it–eliciting shrieks of surprise and terror from oblivious female-types–prowling and sneaking up on people, then waving fuzzy heads and paws about while snarling. I think I’m a bit jaded, though. When one wolfie tried his scare routine on me, I couldn’t help myself; I reached out, scritched his head, and cooed “Nice, puppy!” He was, however, unfazed and responded with a doggie leg twitch and happy noises; I was greatly amused.
The movie itself was exactly what I needed. Shiny, escapist fantasy full of explosions and stabby bits, with some really, really gorgeous people (Kate Beckinsale in a vinyl corset and Scott Speedman in, uh, pants . . . *droool*).
Surprising me (both of us, actually), it was good. It didn’t suffer from the sequel malaise that most 2nds do. The storyline was a continuation of the plot established in Underworld, rather than a bigger, brighter rehash of it, so it didn’t have that “we need to have a follow-up but don’t have any idea where to go with it” feel that most sequels do. There were one or two “huh?” moments that are probably best not dwelled too intently upon, but I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, considering they got so much right. It was an absolutely beautiful movie with glorious action scenes that had the perfect balance of grace and gore.
So yeah, the whole evening gets shiny snaps from me.
If you want an actual review of the movie, instead of my disjointed rambling, check out fosteronfilm‘s write-up.
On the notebook front: Continue reading
I checked the HP website and the status of my laptop is listed as: “Hewlett-Packard is currently repairing or replacing your product. . . . not yet shipped.”
They were supposed to ship my laptop back yesterday. And I even bought the stupid extended care package that promises expedited priority service! Struggling not to work myself into a foaming frenzy of go-medieval-on-their-asses-argh, but what little forbearance I had left is strained to the big kablooey point. If anyone sees a small mushroom cloud Atlanta-ward, that’s probably me losing it.
Calmblueocean. *twitch*
The thing is, I’d calculated on taking my laptop with me to Utah next week.* More than calculated, counted on. The condo we’re staying at won’t have WiFi, unless things have changed since last year, but there are Internet cafes aplenty in Park City, and I’d assumed I’d be able to at least maintain perfunctory email contact, not to mention not fall too behind on my various editorial duties. Most importantly, I’d counted on having it so I could type up any observation and inspiration notes for future stories.
While it is still possible that my laptop will get to me in time–like if they shipped it today–it’s cutting it very close.
@!&*$#! Calmblueocean.
*fosteronfilm is reprising his Sundance/SlamDance/Troma Dance film festival working holiday again this year, and I decided to go with him this time. Traveling is the best muse food for me, and I figure there’s going to be a lot of inspiration and creative energies crashing about at Sundance et al. So while I doubt I can deduct the cost as a working expense (although fosteronfilm might be able to), I think it’ll be worth doing.
Augie Wiedemann, the artist who illustrated “Oranges, Lemons, and Thou Beside Me” for Apex, sent me a print of the extra illustration he did because he liked the story so much. I’m bowled over and touched by both the gift and the compliment. I shall need to find a frame for it and then I’m going to hang it in the library.
Received:
– 41-day sale of “A Patch of Jewels in the Sky” to Dragonfly Spirit, slated for publication in their June issue.
– 20-day rejection from Fantasy Magazine offset by a reprint sale of “Returning My Sister’s Face” to Sean Wallace’s Best New Fantasy anthology. Huzzah! I’m going to be in an anthology with the word “Best” in the title!
And check out the gorgeous cover art by Eikasia:
Growing up, I never considered myself to be particularly “creative.” At best, I had an aptitude for and/or interest in certain things, like writing and reading, and fairy tales and world mythology, but I wasn’t an artist. I had a mental image of “creative people” going through life with sketch pad and paintbrush in hand, making zany, wonderful creations without effort or strain.
I was certainly not one of that number.
This idea of what constitutes a creative person might have been due in some part to my best friend in first grade being an “artist,” capable of rendering Darth Vader in accurate detail while I was still struggling to produce credible stick figures. Then there was my mother, who was definitely not encouraging about my forays into the arts. She assured me I didn’t have the build or talent to be a ballet dancer, that my piano playing was sending her to an early grave, my singing was not worthy of consideration, and that my lesser attempts at drawing and pottery (those terrible projects they make you do at school) were decidedly inferior to those of my peers. I also dated a painter* in late high school/early college who further reinforced that I certainly was not creative–not by statement or attitude; he was very supportive of my abysmal and fledgling efforts at “art,” but by example. He was creative to the point of exasperation, doodling on anything within pen/pencil reach, including my important documents and papers, splattering acrylic paint on everything–his clothes, mine, the furniture–and carrying a blank journal around with him everywhere he went, more crucial by far to his daily well-being than wallet or keys, that he filled with his drawings and musings.
I guess I never considered writing as being a true outlet for creativity because they make you do it in school. As soon as they press a pencil into your hand, they grind in the notion that writing is like History or Science. You have to learn how to do it the way they tell you. It’s not like art class where they hand you a lump of clay and let you play with it. Writing is work. And to back up that inference, writing is hard. Shouldn’t creative endeavors flow naturally, as easily as breathing?
While I do consider some writers to be artists (Shakespeare being the obvious example), I had, and still have, a hard time numbering myself among them. It feels pretentious to do so. I’m more comfortable lumping what I do into the same category as what trades- and craftspeople do. I’m honing my skill and technique at a craft, like a carpenter or blacksmith. I make stories, ergo I’m a “wordsmith.”
But now, a decade+ later, it occurs to me to rethink my definition of creative. I’ve come to the grudging realization that my early analysis might have been too narrow. (You’d think graduate school in Psychology with assorted segments focusing on creativity would’ve jostled loose some of my preconceived notions. What can I say? I’m dense.) The basis of my overdue epiphany? I made Pad Thai from scratch the other day for the very first time (yum!) and I baked chocolate chip cookies. And a few days back I turned a pair of worn-out gloves and socks into useful, new pieces of apparel, taught myself how to crochet, and made (finished) an afghan.
“What am I doing?” I railed at myself. “I should be using this time and energy writing!” And that’s when the hammer came down. I still can’t draw worth a dime, but there’s a need in me to create that, when thwarted, makes me miserable. I’m not writing and so my creative impulses are charging headlong into other avenues of expression–easier, more immediately gratifying avenues that I don’t categorize as work but rather as frivolous pastimes and hobbies, ergo fun.
Writing is damn hard work, but it’s also how I express whatever creative energies are sparking through me. And I need to let those energies loose. I’m at my absolute happiest when I’m writing and hit flow. Spending day after day in November, holed up in the library, cranking out thousand-counts of words on a daily basis was downright euphoric. But it was also draining as all get out. I’d emerge from the library barely able to speak, neurons fizzling mid-synapse. And now I’m making excuses and futzing around, not writing because, quite frankly, I’m lazy. Despite this, my psyche knows what it needs and is groping about, trying to compensate in despite of myself.
Nice brain. It really tries to tell me what it needs, but sometimes I just don’t listen to myself.
I have to set aside all that crippling self-doubt that’s been plaguing me recently as well as all the other distractions–family worries, physical distress, laptop absence and annoyances–because I need to. It’s what makes me happy, an integral part of my emotional well-being, even if at the same time it’s exhausting, frustrating, and downright painful. I need to write.
* I lived with my painter boyfriend for a couple years, and while I found his artistic eccentricities remarkable and more than a bit romantic, if we hadn’t broken up, I probably would have murdered him in his sleep–maybe with one of his own paintbrushes. I still admire him and his work; I’ve got two of his paintings framed and hanging in our library. But I couldn’t go through life the way he does . . . or perhaps did–I’ve lost touch with him, so for all I know, he could be working as an anal-retentive accountant for some Fortune 500 company.
Continue reading
So I have succumbed to the procrastination beast yet again and taught myself how to crochet. Well, to be accurate, technically I already knew how to crochet, but my foray into the craft was so long ago, and my knowledge so rudimentary, that I don’t think it counts. (I learned the basic single crochet stitch and that’s all.) I made a fairly large swath of knotted-together yarn in ages past and then promptly set the unfinished effort aside. In rummaging around my (dusty and disused) sewing cabinet to make my wing warmers, I found my abandoned first crochet project, the yarn I’d purchased for it, and my crochet hooks. After my satisfaction with the socks-turned-into-warmers experience, I lugged the neglected swath out. Using this and this site as refresher course and instructor, I taught myself some more stitches and finished the thing:
Basic in design and with amateurish unevenness throughout, but it is my first completed “from scratch” yarn venture.
I am too easily sidetracked from writing. I need my laptop back so I can sequester myself away in the library where there are fewer distractions. But on an up note, I now have a warm afghan thingy to drape over my lap when I do return to my writing base.
“Although I can’t take the time to detail these issues in this email, I will certainly do so in the near future if you permit me. Given the proper attention, I believe that your story could find its way onto our pages in the near future.”
Erm. So yeah, I’ve sent an email back asking for a clarification on that.
Yep, I feel like I’ve been trampled by a horde of ravening coatimundis. I’m woozy, everything aches, and all I want to do is curl up on the couch and snooze. I haven’t spiked a fever (yet), which is the only reason I’m not calling this a flare-up.
The first Dragon*Con director’s meeting is this afternoon. Going to drug myself up to the eyeballs with analgesics and engage in some serious sugar therapy to get through it. The sugar therapy should be fun, in any case. Rah . . . *whimper*
Received:
– Payment from both Fantasy Magazine for “The Bunny of Vengeance and the Bear of Death” and from Story Station for “Spring Arrives on a Hob’s Tail.” Yay.
Editing/New Words: Editing passes on “Tried as an Adult” commenced, and I think it’s done. But I’m having bouts of self-doubt, so I haven’t sent the thing out yet. I’ve also been nudging around the other idea I had for a story for Heroes in Training. Contemplating writing that one instead. Nothing like a little insecurity to get the creative juices flowing? Urk.
A HUGE thank you to britzkrieg and my mysterious anonymous benefactor who, between them, have renewed my extra user pix until March ’07! Thankyouthankyou!
Noticed something odd recently. I’ve been seeing a recurrence of the woozy, light-headed Effexor withdrawal effects. I have to wonder if it’s stress related. Maybe my serotonin levels have taken a nosedive due to assorted anxiety and frustrations, and my human suit is still expecting artificially elevated amounts, causing that periodic brain-giddy feeling? It’s not as bad as the initial onset effects were; I think I’d be safe to drive while having them. But it’s disconcerting. Thought I was over this. Effexor is damn insidious.
I think Hobkin’s been sensing both my stressed and irritable mood and my physical misery. He’s been quite skittish, even downright antisocial for a couple days, only emerging from under his hutch for meals and a skunk lap or two around the house, and even more prone to startling at shadows than usual. Might be spring fever too, I guess, although it seems a little early for that.
In a fit of cat waxing (also because I was fed up with my wing stubs both aching and freezing) and inspired greatly by merebrillante‘s fabulous Prisoner of Azkaban wrist-warmers, I assembled some wing protection:
Unlike merebrillante, I don’t have the skill or talent to construct useful yarn-wear like this from scratch (and of course mine are nowhere near as stylish as hers), but I did have an old pair of driving gloves with cracking fingers, an even older pair of wool socks with the heels wearing out, a pair of scissors, and a needle and some thread (which I can wield with adequate proficiency). Several snips and some well-placed stitches to keep everything from fraying apart, and I now have comfy things that keep my wrists and hands warm and that allow me to type and mouse. It’s a small thing, but it made me inordinately proud of myself. Not to mention it’s really helping on the frozen wing stub front.
Conspicuous absence of “Writing Stuff” section due to an utter lack of anything to report. 
The plan is to give “Tried as an Adult” a final pass (or five) and send it off to dsnight for his Heroes in Training anthology today, but that was also the plan yesterday and the day before yesterday, and the day before that . . .
All the recent stress appears to have done in the fragile equilibrium of my human suit. Wing stubs are flaring something fierce–although that might also be due to the less-than-ergonomically-ideal temporary working setup I’ve been using. Ouch owie ow. My joints and muscles have also been so achy that it interfere with my ability to fall asleep. For a brief while, I entertained the notion of popping a Klonopin last night to knock me into sleepy-land, but then it occurred to me I’d be taking both an amphetamine and a benzodiazepine at the same time, which would be wrong. *gurgle* Too many pills.
LJ just informed me that my extra user pictures expire in ten days. Pook. I’d recently made some new ones too. But there’s simply no way I can rationalize paying for extra user pix, alas. The sad realization that I’m going to need to seriously start looking into that whole day job thing is ruthlessly clubbing me over the head. Ow.
I suck.
Received:
– Contract from Dragonfly Spirit for “Kaawaa, Naagan, and the Queen’s Diamond Necklace.” Signing and sending out . . .
