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Jul. 19th, 2005 04:58 pmOW. FUCK. Goddamn it, Z. Bees have always lived in clover. I have always spent summers barefoot, even in lawns infested with clover. And yet, in almost 25 barefoot summers, I have never before today been stung in the foot.
Before today.
Damn it, if you'd never pointed out the risk, it never would've happened.
As it is, I squeaked embarrassingly (no witnesses: no problem) and hopped around a moment, then resolved to whine over it once I'd finished hanging up the washing. But it doesn't hurt anymore, so maybe I won't bother with the whining.
Mmmm... Nope. Swollen, but not worth whingeing about. See how brave I am!
In other news, am somewhat scantily clad and glowing with humidity. I keep trying to do productive things upstairs, but inevitably retreat to the Lair where I sit until the humidity dissipates from my skin. I am not getting a whole hell of a lot done. But I did reread almost all of the first draft of Vikings Novel, and have decided that knocking it into shape would be the work of not very many hours all told, and while it wouldn't be The Great Novel I Want To Write, it would be a finished novel which would be perfectly acceptable and indeed above the standards of many being published today, and then I would feel a great deal better about some of my more complicated efforts in progress. So, what the hell? I might as well see how far I can get in Take Three of the Vikings Novel. And yes, I will be rereading all the comments I got on the first six posted chapters from Take Two, and I again sincerely thank everyone who read for doing so.
I'm feeling somewhat skinny at the moment, as well. I haven't been exercising in this humidity-- have been shamefully idle, in fact-- but also have been working a lot of physically demanding hours, and not eating at work at all, and so my caloric intake is way down while my activity level isn't that much less. To be honest I kind of like getting so much exercise at work: Taking time specifically to work out is just plain boring and kind of stupid really.
In other news, this is an absolutely brilliant essay on how literary fiction is way more niche than genre fiction, and contains such gems of quotes as "Because it's all just so unforgivably formulaic, isn't it? Lots of highbrow types have that complaint about genre fiction but my experience is that most "literary" authors will be fucked with a shovel before they'll write a story with a beginning, middle and end where, you know, something actually happens. As far as that goes, most of their literary chops seem directed toward obscuring how little they have to say."
Fucked with a shovel. Hee. And people wonder why I write about dragons and vikings and tattooed spearmen. The author of said essay is a brilliant writer whose most haunting stuff is the autobiographical stories he posts. And as he says of literary fiction, "Most of it's about people's parents. I recognize that criticism may sound a little hypocritical given how much I write about my parents but I draw the distinction along these lines: my parents were interesting, is why I write about them. My dad was a gay drug dealer who died of AIDS. My mom was a certifiably insane artist with a coke habit."
Yes. While my parents were college-educated, slightly eccentric, very practical and responsible people who did very well with somewhat difficult circumstances and raised four reasonably healthy daughters to adulthood. My issues with insecurity really aren't enough for me to justify making myself the primary subject of my writings, really. Whereas Norton, above, can. But I guess it's not ... "literary".
Before today.
Damn it, if you'd never pointed out the risk, it never would've happened.
As it is, I squeaked embarrassingly (no witnesses: no problem) and hopped around a moment, then resolved to whine over it once I'd finished hanging up the washing. But it doesn't hurt anymore, so maybe I won't bother with the whining.
Mmmm... Nope. Swollen, but not worth whingeing about. See how brave I am!
In other news, am somewhat scantily clad and glowing with humidity. I keep trying to do productive things upstairs, but inevitably retreat to the Lair where I sit until the humidity dissipates from my skin. I am not getting a whole hell of a lot done. But I did reread almost all of the first draft of Vikings Novel, and have decided that knocking it into shape would be the work of not very many hours all told, and while it wouldn't be The Great Novel I Want To Write, it would be a finished novel which would be perfectly acceptable and indeed above the standards of many being published today, and then I would feel a great deal better about some of my more complicated efforts in progress. So, what the hell? I might as well see how far I can get in Take Three of the Vikings Novel. And yes, I will be rereading all the comments I got on the first six posted chapters from Take Two, and I again sincerely thank everyone who read for doing so.
I'm feeling somewhat skinny at the moment, as well. I haven't been exercising in this humidity-- have been shamefully idle, in fact-- but also have been working a lot of physically demanding hours, and not eating at work at all, and so my caloric intake is way down while my activity level isn't that much less. To be honest I kind of like getting so much exercise at work: Taking time specifically to work out is just plain boring and kind of stupid really.
In other news, this is an absolutely brilliant essay on how literary fiction is way more niche than genre fiction, and contains such gems of quotes as "Because it's all just so unforgivably formulaic, isn't it? Lots of highbrow types have that complaint about genre fiction but my experience is that most "literary" authors will be fucked with a shovel before they'll write a story with a beginning, middle and end where, you know, something actually happens. As far as that goes, most of their literary chops seem directed toward obscuring how little they have to say."
Fucked with a shovel. Hee. And people wonder why I write about dragons and vikings and tattooed spearmen. The author of said essay is a brilliant writer whose most haunting stuff is the autobiographical stories he posts. And as he says of literary fiction, "Most of it's about people's parents. I recognize that criticism may sound a little hypocritical given how much I write about my parents but I draw the distinction along these lines: my parents were interesting, is why I write about them. My dad was a gay drug dealer who died of AIDS. My mom was a certifiably insane artist with a coke habit."
Yes. While my parents were college-educated, slightly eccentric, very practical and responsible people who did very well with somewhat difficult circumstances and raised four reasonably healthy daughters to adulthood. My issues with insecurity really aren't enough for me to justify making myself the primary subject of my writings, really. Whereas Norton, above, can. But I guess it's not ... "literary".
