opera142: (bleach)
Urg. Car got smashed during an over-night hit and run. Walked out to it one morning. Insurance, fix, whatever. except that the repairs are taking forever, and I've largely been using Moe's car, and all this togetherness is burning away at my stand-others reserve.

Grr. Then last night, I was dropped off at my writings meeting, and I could see them sitting at our table, and I was like, I need a people break. So I went a couple of shops down and had me-time/dinner. And as I was leaving the shop, members of the group were roaming the strip mall looking for me. I should appreciate their concern, "We saw you arrive, but you didn't make it in..." but urg. Alone time please.
opera142: (towel)
Pintrest just suggested boards about exterior siding.
opera142: (this shit is bananas)
The Panics hit me hard today. I'm at the early-draft point where the story seems huge and tangled and flawed and a re-hash of all my ruts. I am running around the den, flailing like Lucy from the Peanuts while Moe, Schroeder-like, plays piano Mass Effect 3 or something.
opera142: (crayons)
26,500 on Nano. A little bit behind, but I'm feeling fine about it.

It's weird. It started out being this totally self-indulgent thing. Crammed full of all the minutiae of daily life that I love, pages and pages of drunken dinner parties full of snark and filthy conversation, an accounting mystery, and a mostly empty library, the last of its books having having hilariously wretched, proto-goth titles. So gloriously self-indulgent. I snicker while writing it.

As it is, it will likely never see the light of day. To revise it would be a thorough gutting. I doubt 80% of it would survive-- too much noodling and backstory. My main characters have only just begun flirting, and it was the kind of flirting which sets back a romance by fifty or so pages. No one wants 30 pages of Opera noodling before the plot finally waltzes in. No one.

What intrigues me, is how much fun I'm having writing it. I can pound out 700 words in 45 minutes. Terrible, non-descriptive, to-be ridden and "there was" studded sentences. The dialogue, as usual, is the only thing saving this work, and even it is shamefully silted and clunky. Normally, this much terrible would shame me into stopping and give me writers' block like whoa. Now, only the thought of someone else reading it shames me. I can pound out terrible words and be okay with typing (DECEMBER ISSUE) afterwords-- meaning I can gut and cut and angst come December.

EXCEPT, oh the manic-tempered except, by clearing out all my darlings, I have been a plot-creating racehorse. The plots I have been coming up with. I have a whole notebook full of ideas for my next project. I feel like I just cleaned out my closet and forced myself to give away a ton of beloved clothes. Now I'm staring a rack of Whole New Possibilites.

GO TEAM ME.
opera142: (crayons)
Miss Miller killed a mouse sometime between late last night and this morning around 7a.m. I found its corpse as I was walking through the living room after kissing Moe goodbye. JAZZ HANDS OF HORROR, ALSO HOPPING. I had to clean it up myself guys. AIN'T NO BROOM HANDLE LONG ENOUGH. THEN I HAD TO CARRY IT ALL THE WAY THROUGH THE HOUSE AND ACROSS OUR YARD TO THE TRASH CAN.

Poor Miss Miller was like PRAISE ME, and I was like GOOD JOB KITTY!

***


My latest writing mission/ambition concerns background noise. Usually, the only noise in my fiction is dialogue. No cell phones going off, no music, no traffic, no signs of life. And while sometimes that starkness suits the story, I suspect my settings and the generically awful "atmosphere" suffer for it.

I've been writing in public places for the past couple of months, trying to listen to surroundings I don't control (meaning: in my house, if I'm not making the noise myself (cds, dropping pans while cooking, then they are Moe-centric and likely at agreed upon volumes-- is there a worst soundtrack than the one for Borderlands?). Other than it's really hard to listen without eavesdropping, I haven't learned much. Maybe I need to find noiser coffeeshops.

I considered scrounging up Nature Sounds-esque cds (like Hell, I'm paying for something like that), and playing them while writing, but I worry that those specific sounds would show up in my writing whether or not they matched the story.

I guess a catalogue of noises is like a catalogue of details; I have keep my eye (ear?) out for them, journal them when I notice them, and learn to imagine them them the same way I have visual details.

***

In other writing news, I had a good session at the keyboard this morning. Perhaps it was the mouse. Perhaps it was the warm-up vitrol spewing I did beforehand. A character motivation just wasn't working, and the more I forced it, the more forced it became so I backed up and re-thought his situation, and it was like BAM OPERA! He's not jealous, he's embarrassed, and giant chunks of plot slid into place. Plus, I came up with a super good metaphor. It's creakily handled right now, but I'm confident I'll figure out a way to say it how I mean it.

***

Manning Bowl tomorrow! Eli vs. Peyton in the World Series of Love.

****

Another awesome Duran Duran lyric: The aphids swarm up in the drifting haze. Man, when I hear good lyrics, I'm happy and inspired for days.
opera142: (crayons)
It was 50F, and I decided 'dammit, I'm wearing shorts' on my run. It was mostly lovely, except for the stretch around the east curve of the lake (the longest, of course) which had an icy wind trying to knock me down. The wind was coming off the lake, which is still mostly frozen over. Once I got 'round that, ahhh spring.

My run was also video gamesque. Lots of weird obstacles. Look out! Tottering old man with a cane, biker on the walking paths, kids throwing stuff at each other, slow chatty group of middle-aged broads, creeeepy dude. Some kid took a spill and bloodied his nose, so I had to stop to give him a kleenex (his mom only had a teeny-tiny scrap of tissue for him-- the kid couldn't have care less, mom said "thanks")

Lastly, this run proved how truly addicted to Mafia Wars I am, I was pushing myself to go faster so I could time my return with my energy regeneration.

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