Tree vs Lava

It's been four days.

I'd breakdown the hours, minutes and seconds for you, but I already feel pathetic enough as it is. No need to share my lametude with the world.

Yes, lametude is a word. I said so.

I haven't heard anything back from Agent Chica yet, but I'm not surprised.

At least, the rational part of my brain isn't surprised. She's a busy woman, said it'd be a bit of a wait, and well, it's only been four days. Regardless of the fact that she emailed me less than 12 hours after submitting, to let me know that she'd downloaded my book to her handy-dandy e-reader, I shouldn't be impatient, she's doing me a solid by reading it at all.

Ha.

You know that rational part of my brain? Imagine that it's a small, twiggy tree in the path of an erupting volcano.

Paranoid Lava eats Rational Tree.

Which for some reason reminds me of Jurassic Park. "Dinosaurs eat man...Woman inherits the earth."

Best line of the whole film.

And so not the point that I had in mind when I sat down to write this blog.

Despite Agent Chica's awesomeness, I've been entertaining the idea of sending out query letters to agents while I wait for her response.

This is a Rational Tree plan.

I know it's the smart thing to do. After all, the more chances I put out there, the more likely I'll get a yes, right?

Sizzle, pop, pop, sizzle...

The more chances that I'll get a loud chorus of "Oh hell no!"s.

Plus, sending out queries requires research. I'm too busy hitting the refresh button on my email to do research, waiting for an answer that probably won't come until at least tomorrow, given the time differences.

I look at myself spiraling, and want to scream "Don't go to the coast! Head to high ground!" Unfortunately, the cries of the other villagers about to die are drowning me out.

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.