(no subject)

Seen in leopard_lady's journal.

1. Go To Mapquest.com
2. Click on "Directions"
3. Enter your current address and the address of your childhood home (or at least the town if you don't remember the exact address)
4. Put the time and distance in a post like this.
5. Don't forget to repost these directions. (Not the door to door ones).



Total Est. Time: 4 hours, 47 minutes Total Est. Distance: 298.37 miles

By our calculations it's more like 4 1/2 hrs, and the distance clocks in just over 300 miles.

No, this isn't the farthest I've ever lived from home. That one clocks in just over two thousand. But it's farther than I've lived from home in the past, and I have to admit I kind of like being able to visit my folks: this kind of distance makes it a lot harder. If what I was ruminating upon in a previous friendslocked post comes true, then I won't be visiting them for a while, and that makes me sad. (Stupid... transportation being expensive. Bleah!)
Time for me to post the link to my pictures of home page that I made while homesick over the summer. And then pictures of the dog and pictures of Thanksgiving. And then I'll look at my pictures and not feel so bad. Yay pictures!

Snicker

Remember Happy-Go-Lucky Fella? The one who showed up on Christmas Eve without his ID badge so that I had to stay late and miss Xmas Eve dinner so that I could open the door for him?
He didn't show up for work the other day, and got suspended.
That's why I had hours on Thursday.
Glee, for a moment, but then, I am disappointed, because he has not been fired, and I am not on the schedule for any more Thursdays.
And I am still in the club TWO days a week. Which is inhumane, in that it means that sixteen hours a week I earn no tips. (Even on a slow shift I can still make $5-8 an hour in tips on top of the hourly wage, if I'm in a reasonable bar. A busy shift, it's more like $10. You can do the math and grimace along with me at the impact on my income that is.)
But anyway.

I was in the club tonight, Club Nobody Comes Here, and I brought the Newton (Dave's little not-quite-a-laptop thing), and I wrote nearly 3800 words. Because it was dead in there. Less dead than it has been, but still, it was Club Nobody Comes Here, and so I could work on my latest writing project.

Which project, you ask, (because in my fantasy world while I write these livejournal entries, I have the kind of audience that cares deeply and would actually ask)?

The collaborative project with Dave.
Yup.
I started it!!

It was kind of fun.

I brought it home and he was excited to read it, so I handed him the Newton and got in the shower. So I didn't hear whether he laughed at the funny parts.
He's now just spent an hour and a half setting up a system so that we can edit collaboratively.

It's a change for me because I always write either fantasy or historical fiction. There are always burly men with spears, let's just say. This?
Cubicles. Chief Operations Officers. Marketing VPs. Project managers. Coffee machines. Receptionists. Administrative Assistants. Yellowed little comic strips taped to faded-teal fuzzy cubicle walls.

I was trying to write a romance novel and ended up meandering blissfully through the world of Hip Urban Comedy. It was fun, because I've always wanted to write like Nick Hornby. It may not work, in the end, but it was fun to do for a little while.

I was going to post an excerpt but not even I could be quite so vain as to post something so unutterably unpolished as that. (Also, upon reading, it's not particularly funny.)

I think Dave is editing it now. Which is sort of an odd feeling. He doesn't read my writing because he can't stand novels about burly men with spears. This is a change.

I may have to rewrite the opening scene from the woman's p.o.v. as a romance novel. I do think that doing it in 'he said, she said' style could be amusing. But I don't know. I'm psyched for the project, though.

Ehm, and any resemblance to my former place of work is so totally pure coincidence. (Sorry, Suzanne and Irina and Barbara and... OK, I'm not sorry to you, David. You deserve to be mercilessly lampooned in fiction.) It's not my fault I worked among archetypes.