won't you bring back that day
Nov. 16th, 2005 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I have broken the 30k mark. I am such an addicted writer.
I took a nap and then a bath yesterday, and whilst in the bath I surfed the Internet and read a Mary Kay catalogue, so I feel very decadent about that.
Today the Dorkmobile (the Prius) is at the doctor's for its 60,000-mile checkup, which is going to take All Day and cost An Arm plus most of A Leg.
I am in bed, swathed in an afghan and a down comforter, and am feeling very isolated and introverted. I have not posted anything NaNoWriMo related since like the second day, and it's just going along in this very written-for-me kind of way. It's totally writesturbation, and I'm enjoying it, but I'm enjoying it the way one enjoys whacking off-- very privately. At least the characters are very real to me, and consistent, and maybe I can cobble together a feasible rewrite from all this, but it's very written-for-me at this point. I'm making good plot progress, actually, tightening up the whole thing without so much of the redundancy from the earlier drafts, but the plot progress is happening entirely by having the characters reveal things to me. I've also just unexpectedly killed off the main character's father, which I hadn't actually planned on doing. So that's a bit of a surprise. Poor old bastard.
The main feature of this tale seems to be that it's a Typical Fantasy Novel with burly men and spears and horses and conspiracies and lost folklore and legends come to life and the such, only it's told from the point of view of the principal Burly Man, who is actually a fairly insecure and sensitive, yet exceedingly manly and stoic, person. It's been a fun challenge, particularly now that there are actual events-- he's just killed about three hundred people with his bare hands, being a Legend Come To Life and all, but is really filled with melancholy angst and confusion over it all. I am enjoying him a great deal. And his girlfriend is coming to life as a marvellously complex and strong woman who he really doesn't understand at all. (Literally, sometimes.) I did have fun writing a scene in which he, injured and dazed, is the only bilingual character, and on either side of him is a woman who speaks only one of the two languages he does, and he's attempting to translate, but he's been hit on the head and isn't really paying attention. I don't know how well it reads, but I was having fun.
"It isn't dangerous, is it?" I asked, worried.
"Don't you fret," she said, turning back to me. She looked at Callonia. "Poor dear, she doesn't know what we're saying. Can't you tell her what's going on?"
I had forgotten, and looked up at Callonia. She was carefully impassive, but her lips were set in a thin, wary line. "Oh," I said. "Galine has concluded that I have no broken bones, and Janno has gone at my request to find some soldiers to tell the king that I am alive."
Callonia gave me a wry smile. "Love," she said, "you must teach me your tongue. And tell that woman thank you for thinking of me. I know she just asked you to explain to me."
A thought suddenly struck me and I grimaced, guilt twisting at me. "What about you?" I asked. "Are you… injured at all?"
She laughed softly. "No," she said. "I am bruised, and my muscles will be sore, but I have taken no damage. I have told you not to worry about me."
"Is she your wife?" Galine asked.
I looked over at her. "Not yet," I said. Galine laughed, and extended her hand to Callonia.
"I am Galine," she said, speaking slowly and clearly. "Galine." She pointed to her chest.
Callonia laughed, smiling her brilliant smile, and took Galine's hand. "Callonia," she said.
"Aren't you a beautiful girl," Galine said, beaming back at her. "I have never seen anything like you. Captain Martins, you had better wed her promptly, especially after what she has just done for you. Is she hurt at all?"
I blinked up at her. "You knew who I am?" I said.
She smiled. "Of course I did. You have the Sword on your chest. And besides, I knew your father. You're his spitting image."
"What?" I was utterly bewildered now. I looked nothing like Galjis. His hair was dark, while mine was light. I was half a head taller than he was, and the only facial feature we had in common was that our mouths were the same shape. Many people didn't realize we were even related.
"You didn't say whether Callonia was hurt," Galine said. "And I cannot ask her myself, nor can she tell me." She looked at Callonia, who made a rueful face.
"Will you translate for me or not?" Callonia asked, looking down at me.
"Galine knows who I am," I said, "and so she has guessed what happened, and she wants to know if you are all right."
"Oh," Callonia said. "How does she know?"
"My chest is labeled," I answered. Callonia laughed softly and reached out to trace the sword tattoo with her finger. I looked back to Galine. "She is not hurt. She says perhaps she is bruised and will be a bit sore, but she is undamaged. I asked her before."
"Good for you," Galine said.
So that's been fun, but, well, yes, not terribly productive.
Dad went to the radiologist yesterday and they're all, wow your cancer is aggressive (though localized) so we're going to zap the everloving fuck out of it with pretty much everything at once, unlike what we'd earlier said, but we still think your side effects won't be too bad, so, like, have fun while we shut down your testosterone production. Merry Christmas! So that's lovely.
And Mom chimed in, and confided that she's been knitting baby blankets and baby sweaters on speculation because she knows Katy wants babies after Baghdad, and she figures (and i'm quoting) "once you guys start reproducing it'll go pretty fast", which is creepy but probably accurate-- anyway it happened to Dad's family. There are five kids in his generation (three of whom currently have cancer-- hm), separated by a total of ten years I think, but in 1977, after several of them had been married for years, suddenly they all had babies. Jessie, Terry, and Katy were all born in the same year; then Maureen, then Andreas, then me, with barely a pause in between-- that's two for Uncle Brian, one for Aunt Alison, two for Dad, and one for Aunt Judy all within 2 years. And the one of Grandma's kids who didn't reproduce between 1977 and 1979 was Aunt Maggie, who never had any kids at all.
However. Katy is the only one of us who is married, and when I mentioned this conversation to Z, he gave me a weird look and didn't stop giving me a weird look for about three hours. Several of his coworkers have just dropped sprogs over the last month, and one of them brought hers in yesterday and changed his diaper in the middle of the office, several feet from Z's desk. (Meanwhile the phone company was doing telephone maintenance that made every phone in the office ring randomly every 5 minutes. So, baby shit and ringing phones: not a pleasant afternoon. Although he confessed that the sprog was cute when it wasn't shitting on itself. The real downside is that it attracted a coterie of cooing women.)
I have decided that I think I might rather like someday to give birth to offspring, but it's still in the "someday" category-- but even that is a change for me, and so I suppose it's understandable that Z would be a bit unnerved by it.
I took a nap and then a bath yesterday, and whilst in the bath I surfed the Internet and read a Mary Kay catalogue, so I feel very decadent about that.
Today the Dorkmobile (the Prius) is at the doctor's for its 60,000-mile checkup, which is going to take All Day and cost An Arm plus most of A Leg.
I am in bed, swathed in an afghan and a down comforter, and am feeling very isolated and introverted. I have not posted anything NaNoWriMo related since like the second day, and it's just going along in this very written-for-me kind of way. It's totally writesturbation, and I'm enjoying it, but I'm enjoying it the way one enjoys whacking off-- very privately. At least the characters are very real to me, and consistent, and maybe I can cobble together a feasible rewrite from all this, but it's very written-for-me at this point. I'm making good plot progress, actually, tightening up the whole thing without so much of the redundancy from the earlier drafts, but the plot progress is happening entirely by having the characters reveal things to me. I've also just unexpectedly killed off the main character's father, which I hadn't actually planned on doing. So that's a bit of a surprise. Poor old bastard.
The main feature of this tale seems to be that it's a Typical Fantasy Novel with burly men and spears and horses and conspiracies and lost folklore and legends come to life and the such, only it's told from the point of view of the principal Burly Man, who is actually a fairly insecure and sensitive, yet exceedingly manly and stoic, person. It's been a fun challenge, particularly now that there are actual events-- he's just killed about three hundred people with his bare hands, being a Legend Come To Life and all, but is really filled with melancholy angst and confusion over it all. I am enjoying him a great deal. And his girlfriend is coming to life as a marvellously complex and strong woman who he really doesn't understand at all. (Literally, sometimes.) I did have fun writing a scene in which he, injured and dazed, is the only bilingual character, and on either side of him is a woman who speaks only one of the two languages he does, and he's attempting to translate, but he's been hit on the head and isn't really paying attention. I don't know how well it reads, but I was having fun.
"It isn't dangerous, is it?" I asked, worried.
"Don't you fret," she said, turning back to me. She looked at Callonia. "Poor dear, she doesn't know what we're saying. Can't you tell her what's going on?"
I had forgotten, and looked up at Callonia. She was carefully impassive, but her lips were set in a thin, wary line. "Oh," I said. "Galine has concluded that I have no broken bones, and Janno has gone at my request to find some soldiers to tell the king that I am alive."
Callonia gave me a wry smile. "Love," she said, "you must teach me your tongue. And tell that woman thank you for thinking of me. I know she just asked you to explain to me."
A thought suddenly struck me and I grimaced, guilt twisting at me. "What about you?" I asked. "Are you… injured at all?"
She laughed softly. "No," she said. "I am bruised, and my muscles will be sore, but I have taken no damage. I have told you not to worry about me."
"Is she your wife?" Galine asked.
I looked over at her. "Not yet," I said. Galine laughed, and extended her hand to Callonia.
"I am Galine," she said, speaking slowly and clearly. "Galine." She pointed to her chest.
Callonia laughed, smiling her brilliant smile, and took Galine's hand. "Callonia," she said.
"Aren't you a beautiful girl," Galine said, beaming back at her. "I have never seen anything like you. Captain Martins, you had better wed her promptly, especially after what she has just done for you. Is she hurt at all?"
I blinked up at her. "You knew who I am?" I said.
She smiled. "Of course I did. You have the Sword on your chest. And besides, I knew your father. You're his spitting image."
"What?" I was utterly bewildered now. I looked nothing like Galjis. His hair was dark, while mine was light. I was half a head taller than he was, and the only facial feature we had in common was that our mouths were the same shape. Many people didn't realize we were even related.
"You didn't say whether Callonia was hurt," Galine said. "And I cannot ask her myself, nor can she tell me." She looked at Callonia, who made a rueful face.
"Will you translate for me or not?" Callonia asked, looking down at me.
"Galine knows who I am," I said, "and so she has guessed what happened, and she wants to know if you are all right."
"Oh," Callonia said. "How does she know?"
"My chest is labeled," I answered. Callonia laughed softly and reached out to trace the sword tattoo with her finger. I looked back to Galine. "She is not hurt. She says perhaps she is bruised and will be a bit sore, but she is undamaged. I asked her before."
"Good for you," Galine said.
So that's been fun, but, well, yes, not terribly productive.
Dad went to the radiologist yesterday and they're all, wow your cancer is aggressive (though localized) so we're going to zap the everloving fuck out of it with pretty much everything at once, unlike what we'd earlier said, but we still think your side effects won't be too bad, so, like, have fun while we shut down your testosterone production. Merry Christmas! So that's lovely.
And Mom chimed in, and confided that she's been knitting baby blankets and baby sweaters on speculation because she knows Katy wants babies after Baghdad, and she figures (and i'm quoting) "once you guys start reproducing it'll go pretty fast", which is creepy but probably accurate-- anyway it happened to Dad's family. There are five kids in his generation (three of whom currently have cancer-- hm), separated by a total of ten years I think, but in 1977, after several of them had been married for years, suddenly they all had babies. Jessie, Terry, and Katy were all born in the same year; then Maureen, then Andreas, then me, with barely a pause in between-- that's two for Uncle Brian, one for Aunt Alison, two for Dad, and one for Aunt Judy all within 2 years. And the one of Grandma's kids who didn't reproduce between 1977 and 1979 was Aunt Maggie, who never had any kids at all.
However. Katy is the only one of us who is married, and when I mentioned this conversation to Z, he gave me a weird look and didn't stop giving me a weird look for about three hours. Several of his coworkers have just dropped sprogs over the last month, and one of them brought hers in yesterday and changed his diaper in the middle of the office, several feet from Z's desk. (Meanwhile the phone company was doing telephone maintenance that made every phone in the office ring randomly every 5 minutes. So, baby shit and ringing phones: not a pleasant afternoon. Although he confessed that the sprog was cute when it wasn't shitting on itself. The real downside is that it attracted a coterie of cooing women.)
I have decided that I think I might rather like someday to give birth to offspring, but it's still in the "someday" category-- but even that is a change for me, and so I suppose it's understandable that Z would be a bit unnerved by it.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-16 03:52 pm (UTC)No probs about the private thing, though I am something of a sucker for reading.
Go you!
*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2005-11-16 10:30 pm (UTC)corrections
Date: 2005-11-17 03:23 am (UTC)As for the shitting thing, ... am I the only person in the entire universe who thinks it's bad form to bring your <2mo old child to the office? Aren't there laws about this kind of thing? Have we not progressed from the time when women were expected to give birth in the metaphorical fields, and then get right up again and finish the metaphorical plowing?
- Z
Re: corrections
Date: 2005-11-17 03:25 am (UTC)I admit it: I was condensing two episodes into one. The other sprog was cute, in photographs.