Life goes on.
May. 16th, 2006 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ink_n_impWell, the fiction rewriting wind has left my sails, I'm back in the creative doldrums. I've taken up the piano again to an attempt to whiddle away the time without having to think, since thinking only makes me think about what I've lost and that just makes me melacholy. Good news is that I'm making progress in relearning "Rupert Knight". If the computer downstairs had been connected to the internet, I can't help but think that I would have done my usual of emailing my writing to myself, and I wouldn't have had to depend on the Floppy of Doom, and I wouldn't have lost my writings, and I wouldn't be in this funk.
God. Damn. It.
Water under the bridge, alas. I think I shall put off retyping what I retyped until after I get back. I leave tomorrow for the first leg of my defection to the South, three legs in total. First, Cousin Jessica's confirmation in Annapolis, Maryland. Then, a return to the North about a week, and then down to Florida to Disney World, since my family has been sorely lacking in it's crack. If my laptop wasn't a Death Trap of Rebooting (see below) I would bring it along, but there's too much shit on my laptop to DARE risk Fate again. And then, the night I get back from Florida, I have to drive down to Maryland so that I might start the 6-week archaeology field school the next morning. 6 weeks of eight hour days excavating in a Coastal Maryland summer. You are all welcome to come on down to the sites and point and laugh at me slaving away at a slave site. No, seriously, we're excavating the plantation Fredrick Douglass grew up on, we're going in and digging out the slave quarters.
BUT ANYWAY. I shall try to keep you all updated on my southern (EDIT: I stand totally corrected by my eternal roommate. I SHALL be south of the Mason Dixon. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mason_Dixon) You may laugh and point at will) exploits. The goals of the summer are not to be killed in Maryland, not to total whatever car I have to drive in Maryland, to finish editing this damn story and send it out to people to read it over and get impressions from, and to at some point, make whatever little bit of money I can. We shall see how I fare.
Well, my summer has officially begun. Tootle pip! Wish me luck and all that.
**So, my laptop. Have I told you all about this odd turn of events? I brought my laptop home a few weekends ago, and I had tried to secure it in my suitcase, cushioning it in clothing in the hopes that's it wouldn't get too jostled on the Long Island Railroad. Well, imagine my chagrin when I took it out, started it up, only to discover that NOW, whenever I jostle or move the screen, my laptop REBOOTS. IF I manage it jiggle the screen back into the right position that is. Otherwise, it just shuts down, and valiantly FAILS at trying to restart. I think it's time for a new laptop. Now I jut need money and I'm set!
She found her slumped at her desk, bottle a touch to close to her reach and the air of defeat hanging too heavy.
"Wait, wait, let me guess," Wilde said, taking in the sight before her. "You lost some words."
The author heaved a Most Bitter 'ha!'.
"More then some. A couple pages?"
The author sunk lower in her seat.
"More than a couple pages?"
She was dangerously close to sliding so low in her seat she'd be sitting on the floor.
"Well, how many then!" the Muse demanded.
"...ten."
"Ten? Ten PAGES?"
"Ten. Pages."
Wilde was stunned.
"Hence the bottle."
It was bad when she wrote bottles into her private musings. Especially near empty bottles of cheap Italian red wine.
Usually in such cases, Wilde would offer heartening words of Buck-ing Up, the usual drivel of 'it isn't going to rewrite itself' and 'it'll come back to you' and 'just think, this time it'll be better!' Rot, all of it, but it would at least get her writing again.
But ten pages. Ten pages.
"...Damn."
"Hrumph."
"...Damn."
Wilde scratched her forehead. She was so ill suited to this cheering up thing. The silence was dragging on, painful and without mercy.
"...was it particularly good?"
"Was it? WAS IT!" the girl growled, pounding the desk top with her fist. "Completely reordered, cut up, redialogued, re-philosophized...two nights, Wilde! Took me two long nights! And I didn't even write it, I channeled it! It was Zen, Wilde, it was goddamn ZEN, and it's GONE."
Wilde rolled her eyes upward, and swayed between her heels and her toes. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
The author slumped back in her seat, eyes staring off into the Black Land of Writer's Block and Missing Documents, the cold dead waters of Reformatting Disks and Computer Crashes, the Hell of Overzealous Cleaning Ladies who have a Personal Vendetta against the pages of the Written Word and Who have easy access to Fire Places of Doom (a moment of silence for the the first complete draft of Jonathan Livingston Seagull).
Wilde hung up her cane and bowler, pulled up one of the butterfly seats,and sat herself down next to the author. She rolled up her coatsleeves, and gave her a good Look over the rim of her round glasses. "You better not be stopping now," she said.
"Ten pages, Wilde," the author growled.
"And there's still a good 50 odd pages until you get to ME," Wilde said. "So get back on your High Horse and get writing!"
The author glared at Wilde, but no one could accuse Wilde of being unable to Give Back as good as she Got.
"Oh just get the damn thing down as close as you can remember," Wilde complained, rolling her eyes. "It still has to come out better than the rot you have now."
The author sat up. "It's not rot."
"Is too."
"Is NOT, it's just...misguided."
"Rot. Now fix it before someone reads it and thinks you think it's good."
The author glared as she turned to the keyboard. "...It's NOT rot..." she growled, opening up the document.
The author didn't stop growling as she slowly, slowly began retyping what was lost. Occasionally, she even smack her head against the desk, or kicked the wall in her rage.
But she was writing again. Wilde smirked as she propped her feet up on the desk.
She was writing.
EDIT 12:30 am:
GODDAMNIT!!!111!!1!1!??!/1/!!!re%&^&^*%$#q@$!%#@$%#@$%^&*(*&%^%#q@!#%^%$
I missed House M.D. tonight.
God. Damn. It.
Water under the bridge, alas. I think I shall put off retyping what I retyped until after I get back. I leave tomorrow for the first leg of my defection to the South, three legs in total. First, Cousin Jessica's confirmation in Annapolis, Maryland. Then, a return to the North about a week, and then down to Florida to Disney World, since my family has been sorely lacking in it's crack. If my laptop wasn't a Death Trap of Rebooting (see below) I would bring it along, but there's too much shit on my laptop to DARE risk Fate again. And then, the night I get back from Florida, I have to drive down to Maryland so that I might start the 6-week archaeology field school the next morning. 6 weeks of eight hour days excavating in a Coastal Maryland summer. You are all welcome to come on down to the sites and point and laugh at me slaving away at a slave site. No, seriously, we're excavating the plantation Fredrick Douglass grew up on, we're going in and digging out the slave quarters.
BUT ANYWAY. I shall try to keep you all updated on my southern (EDIT: I stand totally corrected by my eternal roommate. I SHALL be south of the Mason Dixon. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mason_Dixon) You may laugh and point at will) exploits. The goals of the summer are not to be killed in Maryland, not to total whatever car I have to drive in Maryland, to finish editing this damn story and send it out to people to read it over and get impressions from, and to at some point, make whatever little bit of money I can. We shall see how I fare.
Well, my summer has officially begun. Tootle pip! Wish me luck and all that.
**So, my laptop. Have I told you all about this odd turn of events? I brought my laptop home a few weekends ago, and I had tried to secure it in my suitcase, cushioning it in clothing in the hopes that's it wouldn't get too jostled on the Long Island Railroad. Well, imagine my chagrin when I took it out, started it up, only to discover that NOW, whenever I jostle or move the screen, my laptop REBOOTS. IF I manage it jiggle the screen back into the right position that is. Otherwise, it just shuts down, and valiantly FAILS at trying to restart. I think it's time for a new laptop. Now I jut need money and I'm set!
She found her slumped at her desk, bottle a touch to close to her reach and the air of defeat hanging too heavy.
"Wait, wait, let me guess," Wilde said, taking in the sight before her. "You lost some words."
The author heaved a Most Bitter 'ha!'.
"More then some. A couple pages?"
The author sunk lower in her seat.
"More than a couple pages?"
She was dangerously close to sliding so low in her seat she'd be sitting on the floor.
"Well, how many then!" the Muse demanded.
"...ten."
"Ten? Ten PAGES?"
"Ten. Pages."
Wilde was stunned.
"Hence the bottle."
It was bad when she wrote bottles into her private musings. Especially near empty bottles of cheap Italian red wine.
Usually in such cases, Wilde would offer heartening words of Buck-ing Up, the usual drivel of 'it isn't going to rewrite itself' and 'it'll come back to you' and 'just think, this time it'll be better!' Rot, all of it, but it would at least get her writing again.
But ten pages. Ten pages.
"...Damn."
"Hrumph."
"...Damn."
Wilde scratched her forehead. She was so ill suited to this cheering up thing. The silence was dragging on, painful and without mercy.
"...was it particularly good?"
"Was it? WAS IT!" the girl growled, pounding the desk top with her fist. "Completely reordered, cut up, redialogued, re-philosophized...two nights, Wilde! Took me two long nights! And I didn't even write it, I channeled it! It was Zen, Wilde, it was goddamn ZEN, and it's GONE."
Wilde rolled her eyes upward, and swayed between her heels and her toes. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
The author slumped back in her seat, eyes staring off into the Black Land of Writer's Block and Missing Documents, the cold dead waters of Reformatting Disks and Computer Crashes, the Hell of Overzealous Cleaning Ladies who have a Personal Vendetta against the pages of the Written Word and Who have easy access to Fire Places of Doom (a moment of silence for the the first complete draft of Jonathan Livingston Seagull).
Wilde hung up her cane and bowler, pulled up one of the butterfly seats,and sat herself down next to the author. She rolled up her coatsleeves, and gave her a good Look over the rim of her round glasses. "You better not be stopping now," she said.
"Ten pages, Wilde," the author growled.
"And there's still a good 50 odd pages until you get to ME," Wilde said. "So get back on your High Horse and get writing!"
The author glared at Wilde, but no one could accuse Wilde of being unable to Give Back as good as she Got.
"Oh just get the damn thing down as close as you can remember," Wilde complained, rolling her eyes. "It still has to come out better than the rot you have now."
The author sat up. "It's not rot."
"Is too."
"Is NOT, it's just...misguided."
"Rot. Now fix it before someone reads it and thinks you think it's good."
The author glared as she turned to the keyboard. "...It's NOT rot..." she growled, opening up the document.
The author didn't stop growling as she slowly, slowly began retyping what was lost. Occasionally, she even smack her head against the desk, or kicked the wall in her rage.
But she was writing again. Wilde smirked as she propped her feet up on the desk.
She was writing.
EDIT 12:30 am:
GODDAMNIT!!!111!!1!1!??!/1/!!!re%&^&^*%$#q@$!%#@$%#@$%^&*(*&%^%#q@!#%^%$
I missed House M.D. tonight.
