Sunday, September 30, 2007, 11:59 PM
Yeah, well, I promised to blog. I started this one a few hours ago and typed it through my tears, saved it and walked away, and now here I am again.
What do you do when you're scared with worry, too far away to do any good, and too choked up with emotion and misgivings and guilt to make a phone call, because you know all you'd do anyway is cry? I'm weak. I don't handle worry or stress well, not even on Wellbutrin. And right now I'm scared and angry and feeling like a sham. I am not brave.
I don't write well about my feelings. Or about myself. I never have and I probably never will because I prefer to laugh, and there hasn't been much to laugh about over the past few years. So I haven't written much. I prefer to hide my hurts and fears.
I'm waiting for tomorrow at five o'clock. And if I'm weak right now, I hope to God it's because I've sent all my strength, all my Xs and Os, and my optimism, to Oogie.
Please do good. I love you!
Update 6:49 p.m.: She did good! Oogie was scheduled for heart and stress tests today, and she did good.
I can breathe again.
My OCD, let me share it with you
I once pulled a thumb muscle from pulling one staple too many.
So I switched hands.
A quarter of my day is probably spent just pulling staples from pages. Sometimes doing this drives me nuts because it crimps my style and slows me down, but I can't leave a staple in a page if it has no purpose. And there can't be more than one, especially if it's just a two or three-page document. It looks sloppy. It feels sloppy.
There's this company who sends me bills in duplicate. They staple the duplicate bills together, which makes no sense because if they're sending bills in duplicate because they're afraid one might get lost, well, both are going to get lost if they're stapled together. Dammit. Even worse, if there's a packing list, they'll staple that to the stapled duplicate pages. By the time they get all the double-stapled bills stuffed in the envelope, that's another forty-one cents to mail. Of all the geezly. Of all the Christly.
I like the sound of a staple being pulled neatly from the page. Clink. Clink. Clink. If it snags and the staple crimps, my rhythm is thrown off. God forbid if I have to attack the page with my fingers to get the staple out--it's as disruptive as writing with a pencil when the lead snaps.
If I’m in a hurry or in a bad mood, I’ll leave the staples in the pages. On purpose.
It fills me with guilt.
Wah-hoo, my favorite season is almost here. Fall in Los Angeles isn't the same as fall in Fort Wayne, but eh, I'll take it. Fall means orange, red and yellow-colored leaves, a snap with the scent of burning leaves in the air (well, not here in L.A.), and pumpkins. This is also when my creativity is at its most powerful--the time of year when I hear my muse's voice the loudest.
"Just shut up and write," she says. "Do it now, or I'm off for Malibu."
I'm having fun with Holly Lisle's Notecard Plotting. I even had some handy-dandy index cards, purchased God knows when. I considered it a sign when I found them. Maybe Rwyn (my guardian angel) left 'em for me.
Well, I'm off to play with my one sentence scene blurbs.
Still Remembering Joe Coppo
I bet I've had over 30 searchs for Joe Coppo or Coppo this past year, and I'm so glad I decided to write this tribute as part of project 2996. I hope what little I wrote was a comfort to those who found my post.
2996 turned out to be a much larger success than D. Challenger Roe envisioned; the site was temporarily suspended last year at 10:45 AM EDT on 9/11 for excessive MYSQL queries. You can read the whole story here. This year, Mr. Roe has his own domain and a revamped site, complete with a blog, a forum and its own history.
Now, for a moment of Joe's.
“As I walked down the aisle at the end of [my father’s] service, I realized that everyone was looking straight at me. I tried to appear dignified and brave in the hope that my calm, tall presence would comfort my family and friends and give them the courage to make it through.”
"He was very demanding, but he was someone you always wanted to work hard for," said his daughter, Kathleen, who played center field for him on a softball team.
Joe Coppo didn’t believe in war and Kathleen, a teacher of social justice at a small Catholic school, seems to share that belief. Even though she lost her father in a terrorist attack, Kathleen’s wasn’t one of the voices crying out for retaliation, and she believes her father would have been proud of her stance following 9/11.
Last month of post slackerdom
I'm going to get into the writer's mode by posting at least a 500-word entry here every day during the month of October, with little-to-no regard that the post has to be interesting, fun or well worth the electronic space taken. This will be my toughest challenge during NaNoWriMo; to keep writing forward even though the words that have gone before may be weak and cause debilitating brainburn from which I'm unable to recover. (One excuse of my many. And I loathe excuses. They make me look weak and whiney.) It's easy to give in to almost any other temptation, to think there's nothing good on the page, to not bother working past it or on it or through it.
I've never made myself do that before. Not even here on my blog.
Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work. ~Stephen King
Well, I'm ready.