from a place of wrath and tears
Ummm, into the private slice of life, digiblips, that's where. When life throws me lemons, I like to throw my dingy old juicer back at it, screw the lemonade.
Then things get messy, and it takes a whoooole lot of efforts to put things back together again.
No, seriously, things just keep cascading for the moment, and the balance between fencing stuff(1), life stuff(2), Russian stuff, work stuff (3) and supernormal daily toil(4) is very tight.
So like, I've spent all my ranting energy at walls and the hubby, and a tiny little bit at the cats (their expression of sympathy is slightly better than that of the walls). I've squared things with life and bought a new juicer. Let's not rock this boat by even thinking of making time for writing (5).
(1) everything from me fencing to fencing federation related things like me volunteering to help out with the accounting, because, really, what would I do with all that free time? *le sigh*
(2) things to do with dad
(3) busy busy stress with a good helping of conniving self-serving bitches and managerial idiots
(4) laundry, grocery, cooking, cleaning, and generally managing the necessary check-ups (dad, cats, car...)
(5) Though truth be told, nobody can stop the Cow Watcher. I've penned down a couple of pages worth of revision-paragraphs for Barynn, a tweak or two for Dreams of Cold Stone, and a dialogue for the UTA trilogy that has opened up much needed perspectives.
Actually, that's already a pretty damned lot of writing for not-writing. Thanks for pointing that out! I knew I could depend on you digiblips to turn my lemonade into Pepsi Max.
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Showing posts with label not writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not writing. Show all posts
Ceci n'est pas procrastination.
Oi, stop looking at me like I'm a good fer nuthin' dachshund. Amongst other things, this is what I've been doing:
images for chapters - Dreams of Cold Stone
font sample - Dreams of Cold Stone
Procrastinating is in the eye of the beholder after all, my dearest digiblips. So *you* tell me, hmm?
Shtuff
Alrightie, finished reading Sykes' Tome of the Undergates. Did laundry, cleaned windows. Filled 3/4 big weight salvage bag with crap from the garden and shed and whatnot. Got one non-review up.
Now gonna cut the last grapes off the vines and perhaps round up some apples, and then I think I've been quite productive enough for an asthmatic person disabled by a cold-that-simply-won't-break-through-but-still-festers-in-the-airways.
Wish Cow Watcher would stop chasing real devils and having imaginary conversations with real people, and occupy itself with stories and fantasy people.
Now gonna cut the last grapes off the vines and perhaps round up some apples, and then I think I've been quite productive enough for an asthmatic person disabled by a cold-that-simply-won't-break-through-but-still-festers-in-the-airways.
Wish Cow Watcher would stop chasing real devils and having imaginary conversations with real people, and occupy itself with stories and fantasy people.
DO YOU SMELL ME DED?
You know, yesterday I was getting all stressed about the tons of serious but rubbish words I've been typing out lately for the fencing club's paperwork, feeling quite miserable about the timeflippingsink it is. Today's silver lining: well, at least this work earns money! Alright alright, it's all for the club, but it's money, right?
So, as stress relief I started sorting through my memory box (see piccie below: yes, it a big shiny black box and it gots all kinda memories inside) and came across my first rejection in life. It included the reader report of my far too short and supershitty work of art (hey, shit happens when you're 16). The reader ends his or her short report with a remark that, while my piece was too short for publication, I'm one to be watched.
I might go hardieharr (with black stuff oozing through the teeth) at that particular line now, 20 years later and hung over from all the recent sockboozing. But it does sort of warm the cockles of my heart that there is ... something. Whether that something can ever become something marketable, well... That's a whole different story.
No, the real funny thing is that my brain is a paranoid misanthropic bastard, so for years I never really *saw* that letter when I came across it. I just saw NO THANK YOU and TOO SHORT and NEEDS WORK, instead of QUITE ELABORATE STYLE AND THEMATICS FOR A 16Y OLD, GOOD NARRATIVE SKILLS.
And, it's not like the tealeaf reading I could be doing with the recent rejections; no no, those words are actually there, black on white.
Really, who needs a brain like that?
So, as stress relief I started sorting through my memory box (see piccie below: yes, it a big shiny black box and it gots all kinda memories inside) and came across my first rejection in life. It included the reader report of my far too short and supershitty work of art (hey, shit happens when you're 16). The reader ends his or her short report with a remark that, while my piece was too short for publication, I'm one to be watched.
I might go hardieharr (with black stuff oozing through the teeth) at that particular line now, 20 years later and hung over from all the recent sockboozing. But it does sort of warm the cockles of my heart that there is ... something. Whether that something can ever become something marketable, well... That's a whole different story.
No, the real funny thing is that my brain is a paranoid misanthropic bastard, so for years I never really *saw* that letter when I came across it. I just saw NO THANK YOU and TOO SHORT and NEEDS WORK, instead of QUITE ELABORATE STYLE AND THEMATICS FOR A 16Y OLD, GOOD NARRATIVE SKILLS.
And, it's not like the tealeaf reading I could be doing with the recent rejections; no no, those words are actually there, black on white.
Really, who needs a brain like that?
Black Box
Shtuff
I came back from a busy weekend to find my feeddemon overflowing (135 posts to read? Are you crazy? Don't you people have a life?), so I had to kill some blogs I was following.
Part of the deluge however are the NIN teasers on the How To Destroy Angels project, which sounds like yumyum and more. Can't wait till summer.
On the 1st I met up in Planckendael zoo with ex-colleagues. We had a pick-nick the other visitors were jealous off, caught up with each other's lives, and discussed and laughed about the miserable state of Belgian politics. Since the party was mixed French and Dutch-speaking, hilarious scenes ensued when we started yelling at each other. I was actually pretty glad to see the shocked and horrified reactions of the nameless masses around us, when part of the group was lagging behind and I yelled (in Flemish): "Always the same with those Walloons, always have to wait for them lazy asses!"
The day after I had another tournament. In the elimination I came up against the same woman that whooped my ass during the Championships but this time I kept my cool and managed to use my superior tactics. I conquered her, but then came up to someone who's been in the top 3 for years and years and years. I did my best, but the dying went quickly. I ended up 6th (of 11).
The problem with senior women's saber is that mid-list hurdle: the group is quite small, and the top of the group are those women who have years of experience and youth going for them, and the difference between lower half and upper half is actually quite extreme. But I'll get them, slowly but certainly.
Also, I applied for a job that seems invented just for me, so cross your fingers!
Today I hope to finish some of the document I'm preparing for the club, so I can finally turn my attention to Tiger again and clean that mess up.
Part of the deluge however are the NIN teasers on the How To Destroy Angels project, which sounds like yumyum and more. Can't wait till summer.
On the 1st I met up in Planckendael zoo with ex-colleagues. We had a pick-nick the other visitors were jealous off, caught up with each other's lives, and discussed and laughed about the miserable state of Belgian politics. Since the party was mixed French and Dutch-speaking, hilarious scenes ensued when we started yelling at each other. I was actually pretty glad to see the shocked and horrified reactions of the nameless masses around us, when part of the group was lagging behind and I yelled (in Flemish): "Always the same with those Walloons, always have to wait for them lazy asses!"
The day after I had another tournament. In the elimination I came up against the same woman that whooped my ass during the Championships but this time I kept my cool and managed to use my superior tactics. I conquered her, but then came up to someone who's been in the top 3 for years and years and years. I did my best, but the dying went quickly. I ended up 6th (of 11).
The problem with senior women's saber is that mid-list hurdle: the group is quite small, and the top of the group are those women who have years of experience and youth going for them, and the difference between lower half and upper half is actually quite extreme. But I'll get them, slowly but certainly.
Also, I applied for a job that seems invented just for me, so cross your fingers!
Today I hope to finish some of the document I'm preparing for the club, so I can finally turn my attention to Tiger again and clean that mess up.
The End of the World is near
No really, just walk a bit in that direction and you drop right off!
Nothing much has changed the last few days, still reading too much blogs, novels, tinkering with Shtuff, with some added Necessary Things of Life that needed doing. So, still not doing enough real writing.
Spring is really here, with everything flowering and shooting green sprouts skywards, while the Icelanders are doing their best to completely screw their chances to join the EU.
My main problem this week (except for the not getting myself behind the thing that really needs writing) is that I can't do any gardening* this week because I need to spare the tendons for the upcoming weekend and fencing championship. This makes me sad, because catching up with nature's grow spurt is a bitch.
*gardening in my world consist very much of killing trees, trimming shrubs, and trying to turn loam into something manageable with a shovel: hard work.
Nothing much has changed the last few days, still reading too much blogs, novels, tinkering with Shtuff, with some added Necessary Things of Life that needed doing. So, still not doing enough real writing.
Spring is really here, with everything flowering and shooting green sprouts skywards, while the Icelanders are doing their best to completely screw their chances to join the EU.
My main problem this week (except for the not getting myself behind the thing that really needs writing) is that I can't do any gardening* this week because I need to spare the tendons for the upcoming weekend and fencing championship. This makes me sad, because catching up with nature's grow spurt is a bitch.
*gardening in my world consist very much of killing trees, trimming shrubs, and trying to turn loam into something manageable with a shovel: hard work.
Suicide Pigeon
I was going to get to work, really I was.
But then this pigeon did a not quite landing on the window sill outside, giving the sunbathing furries on my side of the low-emission glass a fright. It wasn't a full-speed smack into the window (actually Pipsqueak literally jumping up and then having some difficulty in putting her bulk on her 4 feet on the sill again made way more noise), but I kept an eye on the birdie anyway. It hopped around on the flat roof of the kitchen, looking quite chipper as it tried to nip at the bolts of the skylight. After a minute or two, I opened the window (squeezing myself into the opening to keep Gluttonus and Gluttona inside) and made shooing noises and waved my hand at it. The pigeon simply glanced up with its red-brown eyes, somewhat appraising as if saying "Oh, I'll give 3.2 for technique and 4.5 for execution". Perhaps it was tired of a long flight, so I closed the window again and figured I let the pigeon work it out on its own for a while. Both Steerpike and Pipsqueak were drooling away and whipping their tail in frustration on my side of the glass, so there was no real danger.
Half an hour later, Pipsqueak starts patting the window. Now, she sometimes has difficulty in understanding why it is OK to scratch trees and not OK to scratch the PVC window frame, so I turn around and open my mouth to give her a stern shout, and then just had to close it again. The pigeon had flown back up to the sill and was now engaged with Pipsqueak in some form of Miss Mary Mack. Unfazable, fearless, or just plain stupid? I tried to shoo it away, again, even trying to push it from the sill (hoping it would fly off and leave me to my writing damnit) and it just peeped at me like: "No touching the merchandise, yo. What sort of game you playing at, anyway?"
That's when I decided it was time to get the hubby to restrain the gluttons while I got the dumb kamikaze bird and stuffed it in one of the cat transportation baskets. We brought it over to the pigeon fancier ten houses down. It wasn't one of his birds though, he just glanced at its ring and said "Oh it's from Antwerp" so he was going to give it some rest and track down its owner through the Secret Registry of Pigeon. While we explained how we found it he was turning it over and checking its wings and feathers in quick and smooth professional movements, which makes you feel like there is some sort of magic to the whole pigeon racing thing. He also beamed an amazing amount of gratitude, which made me feel all funny and treacherous to the Cat God. It's not like I would be seriously angry with my cats if they munched up a racing pigeon. Maybe just somewhat annoyed that I'd have to get the bird's ring to the erm Guild of Pigeon Fanciers or something, because the pigeon racers are pretty serious here in Belgium and besides, the birdie is owned and as a long-time cat owner I know that any news is good news to an owner of free roaming animals.
I guess this suicide bird was making things simply too easy for the gluttons so I had to have mercy. On a bird no less. Stupid suicide pigeon. Now I'm going to wonder for the rest of the weekend why a pigeon from Antwerp was playing Miss Mary Mack with the cats. And if it will get back to its owner; I mean, do they have pigeon envy in this sport? And will it stay away, or will it visit again some day?
But then this pigeon did a not quite landing on the window sill outside, giving the sunbathing furries on my side of the low-emission glass a fright. It wasn't a full-speed smack into the window (actually Pipsqueak literally jumping up and then having some difficulty in putting her bulk on her 4 feet on the sill again made way more noise), but I kept an eye on the birdie anyway. It hopped around on the flat roof of the kitchen, looking quite chipper as it tried to nip at the bolts of the skylight. After a minute or two, I opened the window (squeezing myself into the opening to keep Gluttonus and Gluttona inside) and made shooing noises and waved my hand at it. The pigeon simply glanced up with its red-brown eyes, somewhat appraising as if saying "Oh, I'll give 3.2 for technique and 4.5 for execution". Perhaps it was tired of a long flight, so I closed the window again and figured I let the pigeon work it out on its own for a while. Both Steerpike and Pipsqueak were drooling away and whipping their tail in frustration on my side of the glass, so there was no real danger.
Half an hour later, Pipsqueak starts patting the window. Now, she sometimes has difficulty in understanding why it is OK to scratch trees and not OK to scratch the PVC window frame, so I turn around and open my mouth to give her a stern shout, and then just had to close it again. The pigeon had flown back up to the sill and was now engaged with Pipsqueak in some form of Miss Mary Mack. Unfazable, fearless, or just plain stupid? I tried to shoo it away, again, even trying to push it from the sill (hoping it would fly off and leave me to my writing damnit) and it just peeped at me like: "No touching the merchandise, yo. What sort of game you playing at, anyway?"
That's when I decided it was time to get the hubby to restrain the gluttons while I got the dumb kamikaze bird and stuffed it in one of the cat transportation baskets. We brought it over to the pigeon fancier ten houses down. It wasn't one of his birds though, he just glanced at its ring and said "Oh it's from Antwerp" so he was going to give it some rest and track down its owner through the Secret Registry of Pigeon. While we explained how we found it he was turning it over and checking its wings and feathers in quick and smooth professional movements, which makes you feel like there is some sort of magic to the whole pigeon racing thing. He also beamed an amazing amount of gratitude, which made me feel all funny and treacherous to the Cat God. It's not like I would be seriously angry with my cats if they munched up a racing pigeon. Maybe just somewhat annoyed that I'd have to get the bird's ring to the erm Guild of Pigeon Fanciers or something, because the pigeon racers are pretty serious here in Belgium and besides, the birdie is owned and as a long-time cat owner I know that any news is good news to an owner of free roaming animals.
I guess this suicide bird was making things simply too easy for the gluttons so I had to have mercy. On a bird no less. Stupid suicide pigeon. Now I'm going to wonder for the rest of the weekend why a pigeon from Antwerp was playing Miss Mary Mack with the cats. And if it will get back to its owner; I mean, do they have pigeon envy in this sport? And will it stay away, or will it visit again some day?
plea to the Easter Bunny
Between studying and working on fencing club related stuff I've had no time whatsoever to:
work in the garden
but hey, it's been crap weather since Friday, a week early according to the historical wisdom of farmers and old witches: "maartse buien en aprilse grillen" is a Flemish saying about the weather of this season, but both statements are translated by my Dutch to English dictionary as "April showers", which is wrong.
Here, in the ancient granary of Europe, the showers come in March ("bui" meaning "shower", while "gril"should be "whim"). Translation should read: "March showers and whimsical April".
March was not so wet this year though, but since Friday April has begun: nice blue skies suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a black cloud and a 10 second shower, which magically disappears while you cuddle under a dry roof, you go outside because the temp's all summery again and then suddenly a gust of wind picks up your garden furniture and drops it at the neighbor's. Weird weather, during which I like to walk outside, but not work in the garden.
do writerly things
Except trying to keep up to speed with some blogs. Cow-watcher doesn't mind though: Sunday it handed a me a page of here's-how-to-fix-the-mess-you-made-of-Barynn2 notes which I scribbled down on the backside of the course I was studying. I really want to look into it, but hey, study and club first.
create order
because order is really needed in this workroom. I've really got to make work of the Barynn Companion because if I can't keep track of whoiswho, how's my reader going to? There's little papers with snippets and remarks for other projects, and piles of books, fiction and non-fiction that simply won't fit into the library. Library needs expanding before I fall and break something.
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny, please bring me this thing called time, because I need it more than chocolate.
work in the garden
but hey, it's been crap weather since Friday, a week early according to the historical wisdom of farmers and old witches: "maartse buien en aprilse grillen" is a Flemish saying about the weather of this season, but both statements are translated by my Dutch to English dictionary as "April showers", which is wrong.
Here, in the ancient granary of Europe, the showers come in March ("bui" meaning "shower", while "gril"should be "whim"). Translation should read: "March showers and whimsical April".
March was not so wet this year though, but since Friday April has begun: nice blue skies suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a black cloud and a 10 second shower, which magically disappears while you cuddle under a dry roof, you go outside because the temp's all summery again and then suddenly a gust of wind picks up your garden furniture and drops it at the neighbor's. Weird weather, during which I like to walk outside, but not work in the garden.
do writerly things
Except trying to keep up to speed with some blogs. Cow-watcher doesn't mind though: Sunday it handed a me a page of here's-how-to-fix-the-mess-you-made-of-Barynn2 notes which I scribbled down on the backside of the course I was studying. I really want to look into it, but hey, study and club first.
create order
because order is really needed in this workroom. I've really got to make work of the Barynn Companion because if I can't keep track of whoiswho, how's my reader going to? There's little papers with snippets and remarks for other projects, and piles of books, fiction and non-fiction that simply won't fit into the library. Library needs expanding before I fall and break something.
Dear Mr. Easter Bunny, please bring me this thing called time, because I need it more than chocolate.
