This week, my husband got a promotion, issued a Blackberry, and overloaded with boss-man work.
I'm so very proud.
However.....
Now I spend a disproportionate amount of time husband-less.
*sigh*
Oh well, a hot-blooded woman's gotta do what she's gotta do to make it through her day, regardless of the consequences. Don't tell me it's wrong, don't try and talk me out of it.
I know some people will think it's wrong, that I'm going to regret it eventually. Or the price will be too high, and when he finds out, I'm going to be riddled with guilt.
But I need it too much to deny myself.
The puppy might have to wait until spring, but I'm getting a DROID phone. And there's nothing you can say or do to talk me out of it.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Fluffy vs. Overstuffed
I have an addiction that so far I've managed to keep in the privacy of my own home. It's not that I'm ashamed of my condition, it's just that circumstance has kept me away from indulging myself in public.
Hi, my name is Heather, and I'm addicted to stand-up comedy.
I've had this problem for 17 years. It all began when I had cable installed in my first rental house. In my own defense, I've learned to become more selective in my watching, turning off the too sweaty, the obviously trying too hard, and the crude for crude sake performers. Somewhat of a connoisseur at this late stage, my list of favorite "hits" has been whittled down to a select few, such as Gabriel Inglesies--purveyor of the statement "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy!". He's a laarrrggee guy. Jiggles and is jolly when he laughs, which is often and contagious!
But he got me thinking today as I was watching his special. Going through my book with a fine toothed comb, I have discovered that there are many places that cry out for *more*. Some embellishment, or more description of the protagonist's mood or motivation, just *more*. The problem is, I find myself reluctant to add anything, fearing I will move beyond "fluffy" to "overstuffed". From sweeping majestic description to plodding overstatement. Flinching before an editor even gets their hands on it, expecting to cut it before it's even written. Intellectually, I know it's self-defeating, but there are days when there's no reasoning with my inner editor. There are work-arounds for it, but they're pretty rash. Most of the time, taking an hour or so break gets everyone back in line, ready to be reasonable with addition and subtraction. There are days that I have to get nasty, though. That's when the drywall mud comes out, the paint cans get opened, and I turn my back on the book completely. I ignore it so well that after a few days, my muse and her editor have re-negotiated and are ready and willing to play ball. Those are the days that I hobble away from the computer with hands curled into claws from muscle strain. It's wonderful, I float up the stairs on a cloud of euphoria and pain. That is one reason I write. And it's more addicting than stand-up comedians, and just as puzzling.
Hi, my name is Heather, and I'm addicted to stand-up comedy.
I've had this problem for 17 years. It all began when I had cable installed in my first rental house. In my own defense, I've learned to become more selective in my watching, turning off the too sweaty, the obviously trying too hard, and the crude for crude sake performers. Somewhat of a connoisseur at this late stage, my list of favorite "hits" has been whittled down to a select few, such as Gabriel Inglesies--purveyor of the statement "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy!". He's a laarrrggee guy. Jiggles and is jolly when he laughs, which is often and contagious!
But he got me thinking today as I was watching his special. Going through my book with a fine toothed comb, I have discovered that there are many places that cry out for *more*. Some embellishment, or more description of the protagonist's mood or motivation, just *more*. The problem is, I find myself reluctant to add anything, fearing I will move beyond "fluffy" to "overstuffed". From sweeping majestic description to plodding overstatement. Flinching before an editor even gets their hands on it, expecting to cut it before it's even written. Intellectually, I know it's self-defeating, but there are days when there's no reasoning with my inner editor. There are work-arounds for it, but they're pretty rash. Most of the time, taking an hour or so break gets everyone back in line, ready to be reasonable with addition and subtraction. There are days that I have to get nasty, though. That's when the drywall mud comes out, the paint cans get opened, and I turn my back on the book completely. I ignore it so well that after a few days, my muse and her editor have re-negotiated and are ready and willing to play ball. Those are the days that I hobble away from the computer with hands curled into claws from muscle strain. It's wonderful, I float up the stairs on a cloud of euphoria and pain. That is one reason I write. And it's more addicting than stand-up comedians, and just as puzzling.
Monday, November 2, 2009
ghosts and machines
Deus Ex Machina..........
Traditionally, in days ancient and golden in literary fame, it was a machine that lowered godlike characters onto the stage, simulating divine intervention and the ability to untangle a sticky plot or impossible situation. Thanks to the encroaching nano-bot driven wave of science fiction, it has taken on another definition in modern language-that of spontaneous sentience within a mechanical/electrical device.
I need one of the first kind to influence the second.
My appliances, cars, and house are alive. There's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. And they have way better hearing than they should.
Every time I have more than two nickels to rub together, the collective consciousness that are my "machinas" somehow know, and have whispered conversations late at night to decide who is worthy of the next generous outpouring of my wallet.
What I would like is for the godlike "deus" of all machines to cut in on one of these pow-wows and intercede on my behalf. Just once or twice would be good. Then maybe, just maybe I won't kick them so hard when they do break, thus improving human/machine relations, and thus preventing the slaughter of all mankind in a mechanized future world.
Or maybe I could go on vacation for the first time ever.
Either is good with me!
Traditionally, in days ancient and golden in literary fame, it was a machine that lowered godlike characters onto the stage, simulating divine intervention and the ability to untangle a sticky plot or impossible situation. Thanks to the encroaching nano-bot driven wave of science fiction, it has taken on another definition in modern language-that of spontaneous sentience within a mechanical/electrical device.
I need one of the first kind to influence the second.
My appliances, cars, and house are alive. There's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. And they have way better hearing than they should.
Every time I have more than two nickels to rub together, the collective consciousness that are my "machinas" somehow know, and have whispered conversations late at night to decide who is worthy of the next generous outpouring of my wallet.
What I would like is for the godlike "deus" of all machines to cut in on one of these pow-wows and intercede on my behalf. Just once or twice would be good. Then maybe, just maybe I won't kick them so hard when they do break, thus improving human/machine relations, and thus preventing the slaughter of all mankind in a mechanized future world.
Or maybe I could go on vacation for the first time ever.
Either is good with me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)