Impassioned Speeches and So-Called-Support

The problem with impassioned speeches in movies is that they never show the aftermath. When the speaker is done verbally bitchslapping everyone, and then goes "So yeah...I'm done now" and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, before shuffling off to hide behind someone.

I'm at that point in my novel now. (Which, by the way, has changed topics yet again. It's a third party's fault, I swear.) At least this one is already halfway done, so I'm actually finishing something, which is good.

Charlotte has just finished effectively saying "If y'all don't get your heads out of your asses, I'm going to kill you", and now...I should probably just end it there and start a new chapter. Because I can't see her doing anything else but turning pink and skedaddling. Though really, a little bit of awkward humour might be called for, given the situation. Probably would kill the tone though.

My husband and I talked last night about his level of support, or lack thereof. He seems to get some things now, so hopefully he'll stop being a pest. Unfortunately, his version of support is to try and stick his nose in. While I appreciated his help in thinking of movie clips to watch to inspire above character rant, once I open the flood gates to communication, he doesn't know when to shut up and let me write.

I do love a happy medium, as the Doctor would say. I'd also love to find one.

Pitfalls of television

The Stolen Child
by: WB Yeats

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

I was taking a break, and watching an old episode of one of my favourite shows. An episode, mind you, that I've seen a dozen times, but apparently I'm too bloody thick to get things until the unlucky thirteen.

There's a bit of a poem spoken at the end, and truly through the whole episode, that I missed, only thinking it was a lure for the child that is the focal point of the episode.

I'm a bit of a prat, have I told you that?

It's a poem by Yeats, which I felt the need to look up in full after catching it (finally). Reading it a couple of times, all thoughts of my hellish novel idea have flown right out the bleeding window. Instead, I want to write this.

What "this" is is still in the simmering stage, but isn't it lovely? The imagery that I'll never be able to duplicate, and the concept of a child being taken to another world, a "better" one?

Damn you, Yeats. Damn you to hell.

Houseguests and Cementing my Place in Hell

Lois Griffin: Stewie why don't you play in the other room?
Stewie Griffin: Why don't you burn in hell?

~Family Guy

My husband has his best friend here for the week. Which is fine, in theory. In theory, that means that the Captain of Nosy and Annoying will be occupied, and will leave me alone to write.

I never much believed in theories.

Instead, I've spent the last few days between work and the couch, watching the two of them stare at the television, like there isn't a great wide world out there for them to go explore. Annoying, yes, but nothing that I feel that I can get righteously irritated about, as they're technically not bothering me.

Unless breathing counts.

Speaking of righteous, I've picked a topic for my book. It's not any that I've outlined previously (because that would be too easy), but instead it stems from a conversation that may or maynot have been fueled by alcohol at three in the morning with a friend of mine. It's about the half-human daughter of the devil, who decides she wants to go to college on Earth.

I expect the Crazy!Christians to start lighting my front lawn on fire any day now.

Particularly because I will be (and already have done) putting words in not only the mouth of God, but of Jesus as well, and making Satan look more like a guy with a shitty job than the Emperor of the Damned.

Really, it's about a girl forced to redefine right and wrong, and learn what it means to be human. Kind of like Harry Potter.

At least, Harry and Eden's authors are similar in the fact that they will have insane crazies throwing eggs at their cars.

Should be fun!

Lebron James and Distractions

A friend of mine's fiance told her that she was like Lebron James. Lebron can mow his own lawn, and clean his own house, but he doesn't, because his energy is better served playing basketball. He said that her energy was best spent writing, and everything else could wait.

I envy her.

I'd like to think that my energy is best spent writing, but when I'm told that I can't go find a quiet place to do it, I wonder at what the hell I'm doing with my life.

It doesn't seem fair, does it? Maybe I'm being melodramatic - as that is a favourite overreaction of mine - but what's wrong with sitting in a coffee shop for a couple of hours, pounding out a few thousand words, and feeling as if I've accomplished something more with my day than cleaning the house and doing laundry?

I want a place without distractions. Without the television on, or another person in the room. Even if he leaves me alone, he's still there. It's distracting. He says that I'd be distracted out in public, but it's a hell of a lot easier to ignore people you don't know, than it is to ignore people that you do.

I'm expected to support every fool thing that comes into his mind, but a life-long dream of mine? It's too much to ask apparently.

Tuscan Brownies

"Actually, if you knew Frances, you'd know these brownies are a sign of avoidance..."

~Under the Tuscan Sun

Guess what? I'm baking brownies. Mostly to avoid making a decision about what I'm writing about.

I've gone over a few ideas today, and am in the middle of re-reading something I wrote last year, to see if it's finishable. (Yes, that's a word. I said so.) It's a young adult (I think) fantasy novel, though if I re-work it, it might be borderline adult, because well, the romance is a bit thin, which makes it fairly boring for all involved. Unlike some other writers I know, I'm not going to base the whole bit on smut. I'm far more "fade to black" when writing something that my father might end up reading. It's just weird, you know? On the up side, I had a 12 year old read it last year, and she was pissed that I wasn't finished with it. According to her mother, Leah was completely in another world while reading it, which drove her mom nuts, but it's a good sign for me.

On the other hand, I've got a piece I started a while back about a relationship, and the ten years that it involves, full of a lot of back and forth and drama and heartbreak. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that'd be interesting to anyone but me, as I'd want to be accurate with it.

And then there's Rose. Like Anne Rice's Lestat, Rose is a real person. No, I'm not insane, the muse is just that strong. The control is gone, the personality is there, and she makes daily commentary on my life, just to amuse herself. Ages ago, there was a running joke that I'd one day write a Ricean-type novel about Rose, and her journey to becoming a vampire. Whether or not I'd be able to do that without severely pissing off Anne, on the other hand, is the problem, given that two of her characters feature fairly prominently in Rose's history. I'd have to revamp (snicker) them completely, which could detract from the story. But, it has sequel potential, so that's a plus.

Finally, I had this dream a while back about a girl on a fishing vessel (I think the husband was watching Deadliest Catch on our bedroom tv again), who teams up with a scientist to try and save sea turtles. It was a vivid dream, full of villians and adventure and even a little romance, but I know nothing about boats. And living where I do, the practical research would be tough.

While opinions are like assholes, I could do with a couple more. What do you think?

Earl Grey and Procrastination

A friend of mine told me the other day, that in order to figure out what to write about, I need to sit down with a cup of earl grey tea, and just let it come out.

Well, I'm sitting here with my cuppa, and all that's coming out is a new blog about procrastinating. Someone once said (possibly Woody Allen, but he's quoted with, well, everything, so who knows) that "procrastination is like masturbation; in the end, you're just screwing yourself." However, he also said "don't knock masturbation, it's sex with someone I love". So really, he seems to be of two minds of the subject.

Contrary to the way it sounds, my subject is not masturbation.

It's writing a novel. Probably not "the Next Great American", or even a runaway hit like the Twilight saga. If I ever get it done, the odds of it becoming just one more book on a dusty back shelf of a privately owned book store (or worse, a bargain bin pick up at Barnes & Noble), are pretty good.

Oddly enough, I kind of like that idea, though.

The mental image of me walking through a tiny, dimly-lit shop one day a hundred years from now, and seeing my book on a shelf, the spine cracked and the cover art muted with time and light damage. My little mark on the world, there for some brave soul to pick up and flip through, transporting them to another place, another time, another life.

It's a pretty picture in my head, looking at that cover.

Too bad I have no idea what's on it.