Oh! Someone asked a question!
Thursday, July 29, 2004Thank you for asking...I'm sorry that I didn't see the comment sooner. I don't use Writer's Market...I have, in the past, and I have one that's (oh, geeze, two years old now) but I far prefer www.ralan.com. I write fantasy, and occasionally horror, and it has all the markets I need. Which, now that you've reminded me, I really need to send some stories out. But Writer's Market's pretty cool, I have to say. I love the little symbols.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 9:41 AM
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Hullo! I'm sorry about the spotty (and, well, nonexistant) posting. I think I'm back. I'm having a hard time coming up with things to say of late, combined with chomping at the bit to get things done. It's mostly been that by the time I'm ready to Blog, I've all run out of words. By that time I've probably written 2,000 words (Er. or less. Or, sometimes, more.) and a book review, if I finished a book, and I'm all empty. Last week was especially "interesting" because I had the worlds nastiest ear infection. A combination of lack of sleep (I had to sleep on a Everest high stack of pillows...on my *back*. I sleep on my back once every five years for about five minutes for the novelty value.) and high caliber antibioticis and Allegra made me all dopey...everything was, like, cool man. I didn't get mad, I didn't get super happy, I was just...there. In fact, I went back to the Doc's for more pills (I go to a man named Dr. Pepper...seriously. Cool, eh?) but I'm not as spacey as I was. I just can't hear anything out one side of my head. Huh. Interestimg. Blogger's not allowing me to hit return. I had some other observations I wanted to make (such as The Confusion, which is a sequel to Neal Stephenson's Quicksilver, rocks! It's huge, it's small print, and you can't stop reading. It's better than Quicksilver, which I found interesting and intelligent, but it's not as much fun. Oh, look, already made it.) but if I do it'll be one huge glomp of words, and no one wants to read *that*.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 9:21 AM
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Illumination
Friday, July 16, 2004Last night, I was closing in on the final chapters of Thinner Than Thou, everything and everyone was coming together, and I was determined to finish it, even though it was already after midnight...
Then the power went out. Tried to come back on as I fumbled fingered under my desk in search of the surge protector. Stayed off. Everything was pitch black as I slipped the flyleaf into the book and closed it and carefully sat it down. Luckily I'd kicked over and cursed at my flash light the day before, so I knew roughly where it was.
I hear a song in my head, one that, ever since I was thirteen, I'd sing when I couldn't see.
By day give thanks, by night beware
Half the world in sweetness, the other in fear
When the darkness takes you, with her hand across your face
Don't give in too quickly, find the things she's erased
Find the line, find the shape through the grain
Find the outline and things will tell you their name
"Night Vision" by Suzanne Vega filled my head, and I followed the instructions and clicked on the flashlight.
went down stairs. Brushed my teeth and washed my face using water from the jug in the bathroom, giving them time to get the lights back on. Then I walked over to the desk to retrieve the last bill and called the power company. I filled him in on the situation.
"Ok," I say, getting to the story point aka why I'm telling you this part, "So I can trundle off to bed now, right?"
"I don't know," the dispatcher says. "You're the only call, and if they can't figure out what's wrong, they'll be banging on your door."
"Oh. OK." I say, which, in my head, sounded more like, "Oh. Bugger."
Seriously. I think he was just jealous that I was flaunting me "I can go to bed and get some sleep"-ness at him. But it had it's intended effect. I got out clothes and laid them aside to jump into should someone come banging on my door, and crawled into bed.
And I couldn't sleep. Because it wasn't *dark* enough. See, I have my VCR, my alarm clock, both with glowing blue readouts, and it's amazing how much light they add to the room. Even with my blind half up (and only half, in case someone had to inspect the transformer on top of the pole outside my window...yeah, yeah, I'm paranoid, but why invite trouble?) the place was like laying in a tomb. Which should have been cool with me, but it wasn't.
"Some country girl *you* are." I mutter.
My eyes are tired, and I finally manage to get them shut, when I hear a bug tock tocking across my ceiling. Which I wouldn't hear because I'd usually have my fan on.
Then I realize. There's no refrigerator grinding in preparation for take off, no water pump, no ac or fans. Even the tree frogs are silent outside.
"It's quiet..." I think.
"Don't even..." I mutter.
"*Too* quiet."
I sigh.
I sleep.
AHHHHH
I wake up, as the electric truck, which I must have been listening for, creeps its way past. I manage to get my glasses half on and peer out the window. My window is actually level with my bed, and so I lay at the foot of my bed, with my head facing out, and I listen.
It's not nearly as quiet as I thought. I hear voices from someone way down the road. A dog barks. Something walks in the woods behind the house. A cow moos. Far away a train whistle blows, and the only thing that's missing is the pound rumble of the barge works. I wait for the electric men to return, and sometimes I think I hear their engine.
After a time I get bored and uncomfortable, and snuggle back the right way in my bed, and sleep.
AHHHH
The VCR comes on, clicking and whirling. The alarm clock flashes like a neon sign, and the fan goes scree, scree. I kick it lightly, to make it stop, and I knock it off the stool. I right it, and go down stairs to shut off the lamp.
Of course, now it's too bright and too noisy. But at least things are back to normal.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 6:54 PM
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Anne Rice Quote
Thursday, July 08, 2004I recieved an advertisement from Glimmer Train a while back, a literary magazine that I have sent stories to...I finally opened it up (today was the great filing day) and in the ad there is a quote from Anne Rice, from an interview.
"The main thing is to never get discouraged. Really laugh at the rejection and never, never, never rewrite your book based on a rejection letter. That's like changing your garden for someone who pissed on your fence."
I love this. Of course, advice from published authors is a double edged sword, in that what works for them may never work for you, but this really delighted me.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 3:15 PM
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Hah! Come on! I dare you!
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 4:19 PM
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Fireflies and Fire Works
Saturday, July 03, 2004It starts off like the sound the love child of a hammer and a roll of thunder, unmistakable. I know better than to go outside...to see the show there's only one seat in the house, in the bedroom I used to sleep in. The window is low, there is a trunk in front of it on one side and a pine tree on the other and you have to lay across the trunk and tilt your head just so your line of sight is below a branch...and then you'll see it. Fireworks.
You won't see all of them. Only the highest, only the best...but you hear them all, see a flash of gold light on the horizon. If you wait, you'll see them, in the hot country night with no other houses, no man made sounds...only the sounds of insects and the deer in the valley. You can believe many things.
You can believe the show is just for you. The fireflies are thick, and against the dark wall of the hillside, the lighter gray of the sky above the back drop for the fireworks, you can believe the fireflies are sparks.
Perhaps some wizards are fighting and the reds and golds and silvers and greens and occasional fushas are their spells, woven into the air.
Perhaps it is dragon flare. Or the feathers of a pheonix new risen.
It doesn't matter. These few stolen fireworks are earned and all the more special...your stomach hurts from leaning on the edge of the trunk, your neck hurts, your eyes lose focus while waiting for something to happen. Finally the banging increases, pounding one after another, and silence falls abruptly. You count the seconds in your head. Finally you straighten up, and you walk away.
I know what fireworks are made of. Paper, fuse, some kind of mineral, some gunpowder. I suppose people call it science.
But I call it magic.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 9:55 PM
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