Randomosity, Part the 46th
Thursday, November 29, 2007, 7:29 PM
It should come as no surprise to anyone that I'm not going to reach the 50k mark. If you're disappointed, imagine how I feel 70% of the time. (The other 30% I'm reminding myself that I wrote more during the month of November than I have for the rest of the year.) As of this date, I have 10,023 words. I will plow ever forward; I might not have written a craptastic novel in November, but life ain't ova yet.
If you're single, under forty and looking, you lead with your boobs when walking where I live (which is a trendy place in Los Angeles). Doesn't matter if you're a guy or a girl, but I have to admit that this kind of walk looks much better on a woman.
It's not just the boobs first thing, though--it's where you put your shoulders. They should be back, back, back. (I've tried to hold my shoulders back and it's friggen uncomfortable.) You can swing your arms, but not from the elbow. Any arm swinging/hip-move action going on should begin with the ankle and end at your shoulder. In other words, the lower half of your body movement is not independent from your upper. It's one long fluid movement that should effortlessly reflect your obsessive healthy love of being fit.
I've tried this walk. I have to concentrate on keeping my shoulders back, my hips forward, my chin up. It feels unnatural, plus it doesn't let me look at the ground, which is why I tripped over the edge of a sidewalk this morning (L.A. is rife with them). Besides, I think this arrogant, uber-confident kind of walk looks better on a tall person than on a five-foot me. Which is a relief because I am Slouchasourus Chinchest Thunker.
No, not really, but I had fun coming up with the name.
Four Pounds Less
Since my stomach has been setting the food pace this week, I've lost four fricken pounds and a lot of water. When your tummy is wonky, you don't feel like drinking water. So I haven't been drinking hardly any. As a result my pants are almost loose. Look out, Cover Girls.
My ex told me once that he was able to re-direct a bad dream, to take control when things started going badly. It made me feel weak and left out. Why couldn't I turn around and confront whatever was chasing me? Why did I always have to miss the school bus, get lost in a familiar place, or have to go pee in a busy public restroom where the stalls only come up to mid-waist?
But for the first time I can remember, I was able to re-direct all hell breaking loose in Unhinged Dreamland the other morning. Maybe my bio-rhythms are on the upswing, maybe I've got butt-kickers on the brain, maybe the moon and stars are aligned just-so in the sky, but whatever it is that brought about a better ending and had me wake up smiling, I'm like, wildly grateful.
It's amazing how an early morning dream can affect my day--I make a phone call, answer an email, or face an issue that requires more than two brain cells, and in between the lines of it all is this feeling of a dream I can't remember. Either it hinders or empowers me.
Geeze, I spent almost ten minutes at this site tonight testing my word definition prowess! For every word I got right, ten grains of rice are going to be donated to the hungry (43 out of 50, FWIW).
I think it's a crazy idea that some website administrator is going to tally correct word definition choices of visitors, and then diligently count out ten wee pieces o' rice per word, but it's fun nonetheless (and legit according to Snopes.com). Go try it.
By the way, rice is easily digested (bland enough), and recommended for recovering upset tummies.
When demon babies attack
Stomach pain woke me up at 3:30 a.m. this morning. I was dreaming about a demon baby who kept driving its razors-for-claws into my throat. In the dream I couldn't move my arms, so I just lay there, took the pain and tried to scream (yeah, even though I had demon claws in my throat). I heard myself make this crazy sound (probably because of the demon claws), and woke up. It was a toss up on whether the lessor of the two evils was the demon baby or my stomach pain.
Actually, I haven't felt right with the world since Thanksgiving, darn it to hell. It's like my body from the waist-up has shifted a couple of degrees to the left. And-and-and maybe I've been shot through my stomach--like what happened to Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her. Oh god, that movie kills me.
My head hurts because I'm afraid to have a cup of coffee. (I had the perfect breakfast set-up, too: coffee and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Coffee for kick-assism, chocolate for good endorphinism.) And then I opened an e-mail from my mother, an e-mail about the sacrifices being made by those in the army. One of the photos that caught my attention (of two men pulling another man, bloody and near death, out of a car) had this caption: You complain of a headache and call in to work. He gets shot at while others are hit and keeps moving forward.
My head hurt worse after that. So did my stomach, come to think of it.
This is why I'm here, forcing out some words. Or, why I'll still be writing after this moment. Sitting in front of the computer and trying to write something comprehensive might make me feel like an idiot, but it's better than dodging an enemy's bullets. Or being attacked by a demon baby.
Super Sekret Spy Organimazations
I'm not going to go in-depth in to the reasons for these choices because this is an mmpublic blog and I would'na wanna somebody to run O.F.T. with my idears. (Yeah, so somebody in Australia, China or New York's already came up with one of these names, but probably not for the same reasons as I have.)
Cast your vote. I'll provide a little idea about why I think the name might work for my Spy Org based on whatfreakingever.
Eat your turkey first, yeah.
I was reading a romance novel when the image of a metallic blue butterfly made my eyes open wide with one of those ah-hah! moments. I scrambled for the pen and napkin beside my bed and wrote it down--oh if you could have seen me, you'd have laughed at what an idiot I looked like.
I've done a little research on Morphos butterflies, which are mostly colored blue and/or green metallic. (Yo, some are iridescent.) It's interesting to note that the color of the wings aren't due to pigmentation, but to iridescence; in which the color (interpretation) depends on the observer.
My problem with this one is that it doesn't really tie in with The Org's objectives. I just like the idea of the butterfly mascot. It's beautiful. Startling. Feminine. Plus, I'm open to the idea of character and plot interpretation, which means I can run with that idea.
(Um, I also can't discount the the image of the blue butterfly in front of Jodi Foster's mouth in Silence of the Lambs. Because you know somebody's going to think I'm ripping that off. )
Is it powerful enough? I have my doubts, but I imagine with enough brain power and backstory, I could come up with a damn good reason about why the Org's founder decided to name her faction after a startling-colored caterpillar.
What's not to like about three gods who represent creation, preservation and destruction? Again, it comes down to realistically tying the name to my organization's creator (who is a woman). I love the sound of it--the Tri-mur-teee--but I'd like the name to be easily understood. Just about everyone would understand the idea of tri=three, right?
But where does the idea of three tie in to my novel? (Damn, damn, damn. That would mean more maneuvering. Which is intriguing because it opens more doors, but I've already left a row of open doors behind me.)
Not that it matters. My heart-mind-soul-infernal editor has already decided that my organization is going to be another integral character in my story.
(I've read) that it's the most quoted Bible psalm: The Lord is My shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to rest in greene pastures....
And then there's the 23 Enigma: the belief that all events are connected to the number 23. God, I love this idea, but I fully recognize it's way above my pinhead.
If you're a numerologist reading this...
A numerologist who just so happens to be interested in dark romantic suspense stories?
Fuh cripes sake, email me.
The Remover of Obstacles. (Eh! Innit she freaky looking?) Alas, she's an Indian/Hindu god who looks like Dumbo, circa 50 years or so. Not easily recognized here in America (and dare I say Canada or Britain also)? Few people would know Ganahsa from a Brazilian pasta dish without first Googling her (him, this is supposedly a male god). I'd have to do an info-freaking-dump and I'd almost rather go to the dentist and get a tooth pulled.
But again, it was one of the possibities that made my mouth open in that oh-so-honkey-dory way. And I know if I decide to go with this idea, I can make it work. That's a writer's job, no?
All3gory (misspelled deliberately)
...objects, persons, and actions in a narrative; equated with meanings that lie outside the narrative itself.
Meanings within meanings.
Not a real possibility, but I like it anyway because of the 3 in the word, ah-hah-hah-hah. (Then again, there is the merit of the idea of the allegory in the cave--oh, God, I love that, too.)
Somebody help me. Give me your opinion. I dare you.
No, really. Go ahead. I'm giving you carte blanche.
I'm a lighthearted person. Optimistic. Non-prosaic. Naive. I love to laugh. And this is hard as hell to write, but I have to write it so it'll get out of my head.
NaNo and IE
I'm no longer feeling the urge to reach 50k and win. Nope, I'm just going to aim for some kind of story momentum.
I've come to the conclusion that I'm trying to write too confusing of a story. A my eyes were bigger than my stomach kind of thing. There are a lot of issues in my story I know little about. I don't even know what to call my Spy Organization, which is going to be its own character in my story. So it has to be good. I've been puzzling over this one for quite a while. I've got some great ideas, but I have to base the name on something believeable...also, something I can write about intelligibly. The names I've come up with so far are either Hindu or Biblical in nature, or relating to numerology.
I can fill a shot glass with what I know about any of these ideas, rules, history or beliefs.
But I think I'm on the right track in tying the Organization to religion. It's just...all I know about it is what I read in the Left Behind series books (I've tried to read the Bible, but it gives me a headache).
Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh.
Basically, I have to do more research before I can write on because I can't get rid of my infernal editor. I don't see it happening. Ever.
Once I learned how to write--learned about all of the mistakes I used to (and still) make, learned how to spot mistakes in other's writing--that was it. I haven't been able to write by the seat of my panties since. I've tried, believe me, and I'll keep trying.
An awful snippet from this weekend (posted just to show that I AM working on this):
Daren found her restless and pacing the floor when he opened the door to her room the next day. She swung in mid-stride to face him, and the hem of the of the two-sizes too big nightgown [to make her feel all the more little girlish] swirled at her ankles. Her eyes—topaz-colored and startlingly bright against the dark brown of her eyebrows—took him by surprise. He’d seen photographs of her from three years ago, before her attack, before she’d begun wearing the disguises; at 22-years-old, she was beautiful enough that she should have been radiant in that beauty, self-confident, strong. Instead, he’d seen only that her eyes had been stark with unhappiness. But now, the unusual color, which made him think of a cat’s eyes, seemed like a (fricken-fracken something I can’t think of).
I don't want to focus too much on the COLOR of my character's eyes--it's the feeling (the impression you get in just two seconds of meeting someone's eyes) I want to communicate. And then! Then I want to move on to what's really happening (and it ain't people noticing the color of each other's eyes, dang it).
Just. Nothing's happening yet.
I refuse to roofpread this post furhter.
Tonight's wee snippet:
The room they’d put her in was eighteen feet long, forty-two feet wide. Sixteen paint bubbles dotted the north wall, three puckered the east (but she could find none on the south), and eight decorated the west. There were no windows, no TV, no radio, no book; just a hard lump of a cot, an ugly brownish rug glued to the floor and a door that lead to the bathroom. The only thing missing, as far as she could tell, was the cock roach scuttling across the floor.
Ye gads, I want to edit that. Add to it. Fleshing out the words is my thing.
But not this month.
Nope, not this month.
I used to remember how to create graphics without the ugly white background. I swear, one of these days I'm going to be a lost, toothless old lady driving naked on some freeway.
Navras (state #7)
The movie ended on a note of dark promise (like all of The Matrix movies did); there was a beat or two of silence, and then a choir belted out these words:
asato ma sad gamaya!
Only, to me it sounded more like:
But I have chronic lyricosis. Besides, when I hear that song--by the kick ASS group Juno Reactor--it interrupts life as I know it, makes my pulse do the funky chicken. I can't function. Can't think. I can only feeeeeel.
Anyway, the song is called Navras and it's a Sanskit word that, when broken down, refers to the nine ("nava") emotional states ("rasa") that are exhibited during music, drama, and the visual arts, the experience of which bring about a state of transcendental bliss.
The nine different states are as follows:
I'm at number seven novel-writing-wise, but hoping for number one and eight especially (transcendental bliss notwithstanding).
Tune in tomorrow.
Better yet, Sunday.
Love you, Keanu. And I don't care if you DID pop a paparazzi in the nose, because I'm sure that guy friggen deserved it...
A Herculean effort
Zipping forward an hour means that when I leave work, it's dark out. Who came up with the idea we should go forward in time during the winter months? It makes no sense. Last time this week, it was still light outside when I got off work. This week? Dark. Because we went forward in time.
Everyone knows the winter (late Fall) months are shorter. So why make them seem even shorter?
Stupid end of Daylight Savings Time. I'll never understand it.
I don't want to, either, so leave me alone.
Rantage aside, I think it takes even more of an effort to come home and sit in front of the computer (after I've been sitting in front of one all day) if it looks like it's 8:00 p.m. outside when I get off work. My eyes are crossing. Burning.
I'm up to a whopping 2108. Yaay, me.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The man looked at her intently. “Those are not my instructions. Do you wish to die?”
Shaine watched the woman remove the black Uggs on her feet. She’d wished her memories gone before, wished for her real parents, wished she felt worth loving. When she thought about dying, and she had, often, it was always with a sense of loss. There was something she was supposed to do, to feel, to become, but life hadn’t took her in the right direction yet.
“No, not yet,” she whispered and the woman at the end of the bed, the one who’d removed her boots, nodded once at her, as if in approval.
“Then lets get you bathed,” the woman said, her voice seeming to come from a great distance.
Panic pierced Shaine’s lassitude. “He can’t.” It took an awful lot of effort and seemed to take forever, but she twisted her neck to look up at the man, to make sure he knew her feelings. She had a problem with anyone seeing her naked.
“We’ll give it another minute,” he said to his partner.
This reads so evil. So unevenly.
Fall backwards or forward?
And then I remembered the time change thing. Two years ago in Indiana, we never had to set the clocks forward or back, so I grew up in a nicely consistent stream of time. That's how it should be, no? Only now I'm in California where they change the time twice a year.
I was unsure if the time was going to Fall back or Fall forward. Is it Spring forward? Or Spring back? We had a discussion about this at work and nobody knew for sure. But I think I've figured it out now (until I forget again in the Spring). It must be Fall back and Spring forward.
It amuses me that I still haven't "officially" woken up yet.
1163 words and counting.
My throat is dry from breathing with my mouth open.
I am confuzzled.
Who'da thunk I'd only be a 900-words-a-day kind of writer? (I have to share, though, that my first day of words was nothing but narrative. There was no dialogue. And I only realized that today when one of my characters finally spoke.
"She’s scarred more than I was lead to believe. We’ll have to begin tonight.”
These meager lines of dialogue were written after a Jack Daniels-induced scene about a silver-haired demon wot scared my main character (and me) into the heebie-jeebies.
Hundreds of colors of black poured into her mind, compressing into the figure of a naked, long-limbed female against a plain of white. The creature gasped and the inhalation of air turned the black head into a flesh color. It seemed to become more and more pale with every breath, like the lighter color a cold drink would leave behind in the darker, warmer path of an esophogas.
Stiffening as if in pain, the face turned toward her, devoid of expression because it had no eyes or nose, just an awful, black gaping hole of a mouth that communited hell without words. Silver hair sprouted from the head, growing faster as it grew longer, twining around the body tight enough to make pale skin bulge between the silver lashing of hair, but leaving the breast and pelvic areas exposed. The creature’s eyes opened, black and round with horror. It looked at Shaine without entreaty of help, even while its fingernails dug hard to leave garishly red trails of blood against the nothingness of white. Arching as if in pain, legs stiff and wide apart, pink-tipped breasts bare and unmarred, the creature screamed.
I didn't know I could write like this.
It freaks me out, and I'm not sure what Mom's going to think.
Still, I refuse to pad just to make the word quota, but I will force myself to keep on writing when the words don't want to come.
This is a personal goal and I'll meet it my own way, 700-to-900 words at a time.
Really, that's all I care about. I need to learn this lesson badly. It's not about writing something publishable, although I wouldn't mind if that happened. Of course, living and walking here in L.A., I have a much better chance of getting hit by an expensive, dark colored sedan.
I'm up to 866 words, but that's because I've been editing. I know this. I know I'm cheating myself. Thankfully, the day isn't over yet.
...Now they knew he had betrayed her.
Shaine ached at the thought of it. She felt again like the girl in Mr. Casey's arithmetic class, disliked and judged on sight because she was new, different and good at multiplication. A boy had lured her into the locker room and when she'd refused to let him kiss her on the mouth, had beaten her. The girls didn't like her because she was too pretty, and the boys thought her a snob.
More than one painful lesson had taught her people rarely wanted to be proven wrong, but worse than that, she learned that she lacked the confidence to make a stand. She'd grown up lonely, distrustful of people, and trying not to cling to her much more outgoing brother. Eric's was the only real relationship she'd ever had, and that these strangers could make her doubt him and his actions suggested a bond had never existed.
Well, time to get back to it.
Dang, just a wee helping of Stephen King's prolificacy would be hot damn!
628 x 3
She’d been to the Chicago Zoo only once. The restlessness of the caged tiger had filled her stomach with dread to see something so beautiful and powerful contained, monitored, and braceleted for study. At twelve-years-old, she’d felt honor and shame enough that she’d bowed her head right there in front of the tiger behind the glass and bawled.
'Til the morrow.