Perils of Waking Up

For the purposes of this entry, The Suz = me, and my conscience = That Bitch.

THAT BITCH: Wake up, Suz! We've got things to do!
THE SUZ: No, we really don't.
THAT BITCH: You need to run errands! And clean!
THE SUZ: Nah. I can clean later.
THAT BITCH: You've slept long enough!
THE SUZ: I was up until 3. I'm allowed to sleep in.
THAT BITCH: We have work to do!
THE SUZ: It's the weekend! I don't have to work!
THAT BITCH: DID YOU SEE THE QUEUE, WOMAN?
THE SUZ: I can look at it later...
THAT BITCH: It's almost noon! Get your ass out of bed, pick the clothing up off the floor or I'LL NEVER LET YOU LIVE THIS DOWN.
THE SUZ: Fuck off.

[The Suz proceeds to sleep more.]

The Infamous Sausage Conversation

December 21, 2008: Mother, Suz, and Greg have a conversation that will live on forever.

[GREG is cooking sausage. This is following a rather odd conversation in which Greg said women weren't oppressed, Suz called Greg a douche, and somehow everyone went home chuckling]]
MOM: Do you want me to peel the skin off the sausage?
[pause]
SUZ: [starts snickering]
GREG: I'd...rather you didn't.
SUZ: [cracks up]
MOM: There's...there's some skin on the tip you really should remove...
SUZ: [spits water onto laptop screen]
GREG: ...
SUZ: SAUSAGE!!
[SUZ and MOM start cackling]
GREG: I'm starting to find this conversation offensive.
SUZ: OMG, I have to blog this.
MOM: I can't say anything without going into your damn blog!
SUZ: You're being immortalized!
MOM: God help me.
GREG: Can you do me a favor?
MOM: NO.
GREG: When the water boils, can you put the sausage in? AND DON'T EAT IT.
MOM: I can't promise it...I like sausages.
SUZ: [on the floor in hysterics, beet-red]
GREG: [stomps out]
[Whereupon the females roll around on the floor laughing for a good five minutes.]
[Greg comes back in to fetch his sausage]
MOM: Do you want me to snip a little bit off the end?
SUZ: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH--
GREG: How long did it take you to think up that one?
MOM: Want me to skin it?
SUZ: HHAHAHAHAHAHA!
GREG: NO!!!!!

And that is The Infamous Sausage Conversation.

Casey

This is Casey. She is performing her infamous Batbird trick.

She was hatched in April of '99, and she died this afternoon.

I knew she was sick. Mom told me she was taking her to the vet. She died on the way. Just lay down in the back of the box and closed her eyes. I guess that's the way to go, if you have to. Quick and easy.

Birds are quite a bit smarter than we give them credit for. Frankly, I've always suspected our cockatiels were smarter than our dogs. But that's neither here nor there.

Casey's personality can be summed up in one reference. Years ago, we briefly got my mother into the original Sims. She created a house and a family using us and our pets.

Casey was an angry black woman.

She loved my mother. Loooooooooooved her. She knew the way from the family room (where her cage was) to the den (where Mom worked on her projects), and if Mom didn't bring her in, then by God she'd get there herself. She'd hop to the floor and walk right down the hall and into the correct room, where she would scream until lifted up.

She never had much patience for me. Maybe she viewed me as competition. She had a love/hate relationship with my pet, Gabby (for whom my iPod is named) and maybe that transferred to me. If you think birds can't differentiate between people...Casey had a specific sound she made whenever she saw me.

It sounded a lot like ewwwwwwwwwww.

"Good morning, Casey."

"Ewwwwwww."

Walk by the cage: "Ewwwwwwwww."

She did not dig me. That was fine; I stayed away. She was a small bird, but to annoy her was to risk your own hide.

At one point, Mom was visiting her parents in Tarzana. We were speaking online and I told her Casey was moping.

"She needs to be cuddled," Mom said.

Ha, ha, ha. The hands of mere plebeians like myself would never touch the almighty Casey.

Then something changed.

The first time I came home after Gabby died, Casey actually leaped to the side of the cage to greet me. She hung out with me the entire week I was there - not a single ewwwwwww, just genuine affection. We puzzled over it, then and now. The only explanation anyone's come up with is that she simply associated me with Gabby, and maybe she missed her pal.

Or maybe she sensed I was upset and was just containing the ewwwws because she knew she had to repair her karma after years of terrorizing the parakeets. Who knows.

She never treated me with such friendliness again, but from thereafter there was a truce between us. She made the move down to San Diego, generally refrained from hissing at me unless I really bugged her, and even looked pleased to see me in the mornings when I uncovered her.

I think I liked her because she didn't like me. She was her own bird, plain and simple. Just a real personality.

Our other cockatiel, Sydney, is/was desperately in love with her. We have video of him attempting to woo her with his atrocious version of "Bette Davis Eyes." At points Casey looks at the camera, as if to say "Uh, help?" He never lets up. It's charming. Also, incredibly annoying.

Syd knew something was up this morning. He didn't bother her at all, which is unlike him.

There is another thing. My departed friend, Gabby, is the one who taught Casey how to speak (by "taught" I mean Casey mimicked her). Casey hasn't said much in recent years, but every now and then "pretty bird" slipped out, and I knew where she picked it up.

She was a link to Gabby, I guess. Gabby was my special girl. And now Gabby and Casey are gone.

Getting off-topic...

So. Our pack number diminishes yet again. It has not been a good year for my family. We've lost relatives and pets...it's just been...a lot...it always stings, to lose someone, but Casey is sadly the latest slap 2009 has taken at us. Lest anyone think I'm complaining, please note I'm not. It's just been a shit year for us. Thanksgiving is going to be bittersweet.

I'm off to bed. I hope she doesn't haunt me. The last thing I need is to wake up with a shadowy yellow figure whispering ewwwwwwwwwwww in my ear.

Rest in peace, pretty bird. Say hi to Gabby for me.

Dippers

I went to a party in Newport last night.

I will spare you all the intricate, behind-the-scenes drama (involving exes, shared friends, and general ridiculousness). My gal pal and I got there around eight. Drinking and eating commenced.

At some point there was a hot tub excursion. I found myself forced into a borrowed swimsuit and all but shoved in (I must admit, it was quite nice); watched all manner of weirdness, and then climbed out around 12 because dammit, I was tired.

I remember climbing onto a couch (after drying off and changing, of course - I'm not that inconsiderate) and dozing off for awhile. People came and went. I think someone nodded off at the pool table.

At five, I roused myself enough to drive home. I was sober at that point, just very tired. They start ticketing at seven or eight in Newport, and if I went back to sleep I wouldn't be able to get up to move the car in time. So we headed up to the beachfront parking lot to head back to Orange.

And we stood there.

With 98% of the Newport residents either asleep or respectably passed out, it was very quiet and very, very dark. All the stars were out, shining down on a black void that I certainly hope was the ocean (if it wasn't, well, we've got bigger problems than 2012). The surf crashed in the background.

"Look," my gal pal said, "I can see the Dippers!"

I live in a well-lit area. I haven't seen the Dippers since...I don't remember when.

We held very still for a few seconds, just taking it all in.

"Those parties aren't fun anymore," she said.

"No," I agreed. I'd been thinking that the majority of the night. It's always good to see the pals, but something...something was off. Something was different.

Maybe it's me.

Still, standing out there with just the darkness and the ocean, reminded that there is still true beauty in the world, made me think the evening, while flawed, was completely worth it.

Deep (or not) Thoughts

I am relaxing on the couch, watching The Office and 30 Rock.

In The Office, Dunder-Mifflin is facing bankruptcy. This is something of a familiar subject to me. Source Interlink was having nightmarish money problems in the months leading up to my layoff. The sensible thing to happen at The Office is to start taking out characters left and right...I doubt that'll happen. They will Find A Way.

Source didn't. And I was laid off.

It's strange for me to be at a company that's doing well, where joblessness isn't around every corner (well, it is in my head, but that's just me). I just got so used to impending doom that normalcy is...I don't know...unnatural?

I guess I'm getting a bit introspective because it's That Time of Year, where you reflect on what's gone on and what might yet come. I haven't decided what 2009 will go down as. A lot has changed for me this year.

Sorry. This entry got off-track. I am not much more deep thoughts, really; I prefer to see the humor in life and chuckle my way through it. Sometimes that's not possible. But sitting here contemplating everything that's gone on this year is spooking me just a bit. As recently as five months ago I imagined I'd be spending my November in San Diego with my parents. The day before my interview I'd taken a bunch of boxes down to their house - preparing to move back in after my lease was up. I love my parents very much. I think we'd have made the best of the situation.

Yet here I am, sitting on Cleveland - the couch I bought myself (and his companion chair, Quagmire) - with my feet propped up on the coffee table, still in the apartment I loved enough to stay in after a former roommate's family bought her a house.

For tonight, anyway, I count myself very lucky.

(Random insane rants will return tomorrow, I'm sure.)

(I FUCKING LOVE COMMAS!)

Feh

I hate those nights where I become so embroiled in a campaign that I forget what time it is. Invariably, by the time I glance at the clock, it's too late to beat the traffic.

Sigh.

Anyway, I'm posting from work at six PM because I don't feel like battling traffic. Or much of anything else. Sadly, there isn't much to do out here; no bookstores or libraries to kill time in, and I don't really feel like overloading on caffeine from Starbucks at this hour. So I sit. And twiddle my thumbs. I guess I could head to Quizno's and get lunch for tomorrow...

I find it mildly infuriating that I could spend hours sitting in traffic to go seven miles...or zip down the five to San Diego and eat dinner with my parents. By the time I hit the typical problem areas in SD, it'll be cleared up.

Hmmm.

(I won't do it. It'll mean another insane drive in the morning.)

Feh. I'll just start bringing stuff to Bucks with me, I guess. Right now I'll limp home.

Serendipity

Today is my ex's birthday.

We haven't spoken for a year. I didn't wish him happy birthday last November. I certainly have no intention of wishing him one this year (in case you didn't realize, it was a bad ending [okay, several bad endings]).

But it's his birthday today. It occurred to me while I was out for a walk.

I turned on South Park when I got back. It's "Kenny Dies." There's a particularly rousing moment where Cartman convinces Congress to overturn a ban on stem cell research...via a musical rendition of "Heat of the Moment."

We watched that episode together and agreed on the absolute awesomeness of that song. Somehow, we decided it would be our song. We didn't decide whether it was the South Park version or the official recording from Asia. I believe they were interchangeable.

And so it was.

It proved sadly fortuitous ("I never meant to be so bad to you/One thing I thought that I would never do"), but that's another story. My life's been much better without him in it. Still, whenever we heard this song we'd smile, whether we were fighting or getting along.

Just seems odd that the song comes up on this day, of all days.

I'm still not calling him.

But the song played, and I smiled.

I guess that's something.

Good morning

Got into San Diego last night. My uncle is visiting so I'm sleeping on the living room couch (which is actually remarkably comfortable). The dog, as is her habit, turncoated and hung out with me.

This was of great relief to the uncle, who said she'd been following him around the last two days.

This afternoon we're seeing 2012; after that, who knows.

NaNo is a lost cause. It's all right. At some point I'll want to write again, but I don't think this is the point in my life to push it and then feel guilty when I can't bring myself to do it. On the plus side, I do want to start working on my other tales again; Lusitania and Escapist are completed novels that need work.

Maybe I can spend the rest of '09 in editing mode, then hop into writing mode in 2010...oh, let's hope.

Coffee and cereal for breakfast. My uncle and mother are discussing religion and what it does to people. The knee feels much better; I'm just going to relax this weekend and not go sprinting around. Let the damn thing heal.

Suz vs The Desk

I declare a vendetta.

This desk I am in hates me, and it has lashed out for the last time.

There is some kind of support beam running underneath it. The support beam is made of metal. It's got an edge that is not exactly soft and fluffy. This desk is foolishly designed in such a way that anyone over five feet tall is doomed to bang their knees against the support beam at one time or another.

This happened to me yesterday.

There I was, minding my own business, editing one page or another. I turned to write something down.

SCHUNK!

I loosed a series of profanities that miraculously only reached the ears of one writer, who politely asked if I was all right.

I staggered away.

I've hit my knees on the damn thing before, but this was a bad one. The bruising isn't too bad, but no amount of icing could keep it from puffing up overnight. Hence I'm wearing my comfy pants, which are ragged and huge and probably shouldn't be seen outside my apartment.

I can generally walk on it now. Stairs present a problem.

Trying to blame the general stupor I've been in today on last night's pills, but I'm wondering if I haven't come down with a bit of a virus, too. Did everything I could to keep from catching the flu that went around, and I think I'm in the clear as far as that goes...but after the pummeling the immune system doubtlessly took, it wouldn't surprise me if something's cropped up.

Anyway, back to the desk.

It has roused my ire, and therefore it's going to pay. As of yet, I do not have any clue how to make a construct of fake wood and metal bow to my will (or at least apologize for being an asshole) but I'm open to ideas.

Or, you know, chainsaws.

Deep Thoughts

I can't take credit for this one. It's the one part of Don Quixote that has stayed with me since high school:

I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is. Pain, misery, hunger... cruelty beyond belief. I have heard the singing from taverns and the moans from bundles of filth on the streets. I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle... or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I have held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words... only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question: "Why?" I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams - this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.

Nanourgh

I don't believe in writer's block.

Let me amend that. I can usually "write through" something - either through journal entries or just pounding out chapter after chapter. Eventually, the funk fades out.

Except this month, of course.

I've done NaNoWriMo every year since 2002. I bombed in 2004 when there was a joint boyfriend/family fiasco wrecking my chi. Every other year, it's been a total peach. The stories I churn out might need work, but they're not tooth-pullingly painful processes.

I may have to drop it this year. Too much going on, the brain does not want to write, everything feels forced.

I have a handful of stories - completed novels - that are done. When I finish a book, I convince myself it's terrible and needs tons of rewriting to ever be digestible. So...I toss them aside (well, set them gently under the bed) and forget about them.

There's a couple that really, really aren't bad. One of which I left with a pal for months and have never come back to...

Man. Maybe this is my brain's way of telling me to focus on those stories for awhile. At least say, yes, they are ready to go out into the world. Maybe then the writing voodoo will return.

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself. It wouldn't be the first time.

Book bitching

I now have 3,000+ words on my little space opera, which still needs a name.

Hooray.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out what, precisely, is bothering me about the books I read. Mild spoilers ahead.

The latest novel I picked up, Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (by Walter Greatshell) is what prompted the discussion. The cover art looks cool (though it has nothing to do with the book; the heroine is a flat-chested 17yo, the girl on the cover looks like Shiri Appleby, boobs and all - also, WTF is the Queen Mary doing there? So far they're in a submarine off the East Coast. I guess it's possible the Mary shows up later, but so far it's just WTF). The book's not bad. The writing is just...off. It sounds like an adult male trying to sound like a 17yo female and failing. There's just little things here and there. I used to be 17. I am female, despite my tomboy tendencies. We don't talk or think like that.

The narration itself is jarring. Greatshell does get it right now and then, but then he pulls back and just...screws with my head again, I guess. Oh, and there's an entire page where the dialogue is in ALL CAPS because THEY ARE TALKING THROUGH BULLHORNS. I'm sorry. When did this become acceptable in publication? I DO NOT NEED A PAGE OF ALL CAPS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Oh. Yeah. It's another zombie book. Whatever. Some of them are fun. Most of them are ass, but some are fun.

Earth Abides is a classic - minus the zombies. I generally enjoyed reading it, except for the hero, Ish.

How can I explain Ish? Ish struck me as cold. I couldn't feel anything for him as a character. I'm not sure if this was intentional (he is described as a scholar, never great with people) or if it's just a failure of characterization. The only person he really, consistently shows warmth to is his wife, Em, whom he thinks of as "mother of nations." He loves what she represents, rather than her. He shows little to no interest in his children, save Joey, who he sees as smart and possibly the savior of mankind.

(Mankind, or what's left of it, needs a savior because Ish & co reproduced too damn fast and all their children don't want to learn to read or write or do 'rithmatic. I guess my point is, Ish is more interested in mankind progressing than life itself.)

There is no real point to this entry. If I were a responsible blogger I'd point out what I do differently, but I haven't had my morning coffee yet...so that's not going to happen. :)

OhNoNaNo

I've participated in NaNoWriMo since 2002. I've won every year except 2004, where there were extenuating circumstances (bad breakup, family trouble, etc.), with a variety of stories and genres.

(By "win" I mean "hit 50,000 words" - I didn't really win anything, although I've made friends.)

Even last year, in the midst of a truly hellish work environment, I kicked out 60,000+ words on Shadow of Erebus, a supernatural Arctic adventure...

So why is this year so hard?

I sat down today and churned out two thousand words on The Mortal Coil and just sat there hating every moment of it. I hadn't given myself permission to stop because I'm not a quitter; I saw some glimpses of the story I wanted to tell, but the rest of it...blegh. It just wasn't working. The few good words I was getting in October stood alone.

A couple of hours ago I started on something new. Just a silly sci fi story. Chapter one is a jailbreak. Bam, two thousand words.

This one has more of a plotline to work from - I at least know where I'm sending my characters - though I don't know much beyond it. Anyway, it seems fun and breezy and not at all the downer that Mortal Coil was turning into...and maybe I need something fun and happy to work on.

(Last year's novel, Shadow of Erebus, was about as dark and depressing a story as I've ever written. It's a sequel to another dark, depressing story...maybe I've just been in a funk?)

It has no title. The characters are using "borrowed" names until I figure out what to call them. It's definitely space opera, as opposed to hard sf (which I find utterly boring). Typical lightspeed, dashing to planets, banking in space type stuff. Haven't decided if they use lasers or missiles yet. No lightsabers, but that's only because George Lucas would sue me.

On that note, if turbolasers really existed, I'd mount a set on my car and clear the 55 each morning. It would make for a more pleasant commute.

Oh, reLAX

Let me sum up my week:

"What do you mean, you landed at fucking LAX?!"

(This was preceded by, "Omigod, we landed at fucking LAX!")

There are a couple of pluses to being abruptly freed from picking up my darling, lovely old pal from the airport, chief among them "Great! Now I can watch The Office and 30 Rock! And get my writing done!"

True, there was an event I actually wanted to go to at 7, but this gal is my closest, oldest pal, and she's having a tough time, and I thought, sure, I'll pick her up at John Wayne and we'll get dinner and it will be awesome.

Except she flew into LAX.

And we both knew there was no way I was battling 405 to get to her when her mother lives, like, right next to the airport and...

And so I drove home.

Here I am, eating a truly disgusting Lean Cuisine Mac n'cheese and thinking I've really been a step behind this entire week. Not sure if I should blame it on the sickness floating around the office, or allergies, or the time change...oh, crap, used the serial comma....

It's funny. I'm laughing.

I'll be glad when the weekend comes, though.

Other news: I think I'm just barely keeping pace with Nano. Still no plot. I have more of a plot than I did before, but...not a real one.

Neda

I heard about Neda over the summer.

I managed to avoid the actual video. Until tonight.

Thought it was something else. Click. Oh hell no. Am I seeing this. I'm seeing this.

She was my age. I just saw her die.

I feel like something just cracked in me.

Numbers

So, 'tis November first, and NaNoWriMo has begun.

I have 4,320 on The Mortal Coil, which means by midnight of Dec. 1 I need 54,320.

A year ago this would have been easy.

I guess we'll see...

I don't know what this is

I needed some kind of backstory/prologue/opener thing for the NaNo story, working title The Mortal Coil. So I wrote one.

I shall post it. Because I don't post/share my work...ever, and if I ever hope to get published I need to get the hell over it.

So here 'tis. Vibeke is not at her finest - looking at it now I want to edit it to shreds - but it was the first thing I wrote in...quite a long time. Ugh, don't mind blogger wrecking my formatting.

--
The unofficial story is that Charon ran out of room on his boat.
I’m serious. Apparently the line to cross Styx to the underworld was so long, Charon went “Hell with this shit” and took a vacation or something, or maybe he went to his overlord to find a bigger boat. I guess the Titanic wasn’t available.
That’s what people say, anyway. That’s the myth that has sprung up after two years.
The problem with Charon’s extended vacation isn’t just the undead that wander around the ruined cities and highways of America and presumably the world.
No, they’re okay. I mean, they’re a pain. They’re kind of like big, rotting cockroaches. But you can generally step on roaches without killing yourself.
The big problem nowadays is the ghost quotient.
Charon ran out of room. All those spirits of the recently departed had nowhere to go, be it heaven or hell or some place in between…so they decided to stick around here.
And get in my way.
Honestly, I’d rather deal with the undead than ghosts.
There, I said it.
The undead are easy. They’re usually slow. They’re vacant. All they really want to do is eat you so they can move on to eat your neighbor. They’re like really ravenous hicks without any sort of table manners.
Ghosts are tougher. They have feelings. They’re upset. They want to sit around and tell you about their lives and deaths and remember what it’s like to be human, or at least be walking around minus boiled skin or missing appendages or whatever it was that killed them. Sometimes they’re pretty damned gross.
The recently dead – the ones who died after the Cataclysm, which is probably what overloaded Charon’s ferry in the first place – are the worst. You see, they’re still solid. They can go through walls and float and even give you the chills, but they can also smack you around if they really want to.
They’re usually not much fun. And they don’t just drop like a good zombie when you shoot them in the head.
Welcome to Earth, 2014, and life after the end of the world.

(c) S. Baldwin

Foggy Thoughts

San Diego is good for my head.

My sinuses typically clear up remarkably once I spend a night down here - despite sharing a room with three birds and the dog. The weeklong headache has lifted. Not sure if that's the sinus or just the vague, ever-present stress of work.

Right now I have a golden retriever staring at me from across the room, and my mother is typing on the computer. I had to vacate the desk for her; I've been doing my overtime from a rocking chair. This ceased being comfortable after a couple of hours. Am taking a break at the moment, checking my local Internet haunts and munching on various snacks.

I've tried building a playlist for the NaNo story, but am basically stalled out with Sonata Arctica and the I Am Legend score. They're both well and good, but I need a little more variety - otherwise the brain goes "Wait, I heard this forty minutes ago..." Trying to dig up some suitable grim-sounding, apocalyptic-ish tunes from the depths of the hard drive. This may require going to the desktop and its 60+ gigs of music.

It's still depressingly plotless.

The story. Not the desktop.

I'm worried that I've spent so much time proofing words that I've forgotten how to string them together myself. I mean, obviously I'm writing now, but there's a big difference between a blog entry and a story. That's something I've got to figure out quickly, because I'm not going to make it writing 50,000 words that I absolutely hate.

The fog is in tonight. I'm glad my parents moved to a place where there's fog; I grew up with it in the Bay Area. When they moved to Sacramento there was no fog (just insane heat and cold)...and I don't get any fog in my inland home. The best we ever get in Orange is mist.

But San Diego has fog, man. Real, honest-to-goodness fog. A total bitch to drive in, but it blankets everything - brings a mystical quality to life. I go outside and feel like I'm in some kind of freakish medieval zone.

Back to work. Needs must and all.

Nightwish Fangirling

So there's this Finnish metal band I listen to frequently.

If I had to pick one Finnish band to listen to for the rest of my life, it would probably be Sonata Arctica. Their music speaks to me - not sure why, considering half of it is about revenge and creepiness and - well, maybe I'm just weird...anyway, if I could pick two Finnish bands, the other would be Nightwish.

Which brings me to this song.

Nightwish is a symphonic metal band. You can definitely hear the "movie soundtrack" influence in quite a bit of the music.

They covered a version of "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" for their latest album. "The Heart..." is the theme song from the movie The Piano; if you haven't heard it, I highly recommend - very pretty, soothing music. The Nightwish version has guitars, a choir, the lovely Anette Olzon singing...

The original composer, Michael Nyman, hated it and wouldn't let them release it.

They finally played it at the final concert of this tour - it played in the background during their final bows. All we really have of it are bad YouTube recordings and rips...but damn, it's a pity Nyman wouldn't let them release it. The song is hypnotic.

I can't even understand half the lyrics - I hear "slave to the toil, this mortal coil" and I can make out a few of the other lines, but damn, I can listen to it over and over again, which is what I've been doing since I got my mitts on a copy. Would love to hear what it really sounds like without the screaming, clapping crowd.

There is no real point to this entry. It's just me fangirling over this song. Or what I can hear of it, anyway. I did yank "mortal coil" from it as a working title for the new manuscript - but that was yanked from Shakespeare, so...not counting it as infringement. :D



On another note, Nightwish has typically made it onto whatever writing playlist I make. They have sad songs, angry songs, happy songs...okay, maybe two of them are happy songs. Plenty of epic stuff. If you're into movie music, check them out.

Suz vs The Locust

The locust really set the tone of the day.

I'd just gotten into my car and fired up the stereo. It was 8:50, giving me a good 40 minutes to get into work. The weather wasn't awful, my sinuses weren't throbbing...overall, the makings of a good day.

Then I saw It.

It sat on my left windshield wiper. Wait - sat on is too delicate a phrase. Engulfed is what I'm looking for. It engulfed my left windshield wiper.

I thought about turning on the wipers to flick it off. This presented the unsanitary possibility that Mr. Locust might become entrapped underneath it, thus leaving a dreadful smear on my windshield. Not that my windshield is flawless, but I wasn't about to scrape a gigantic bug off it when it was only Tuesday.

So I did what any semi-awake female would do: I took a picture...and left it there.

I kept an eye on it as I drove cautiously down the mean streets of Orange. Aside from its antennae twitching in the breeze, the locust didn't move. I wondered if it would stay with me through the trip, join me at work. Would I have to keep it in a jar? Could I leave it on someone's desk? Actually, that thought had merit.

I turned onto the freeway and stepped on the gas. Mr. Locust clung to the wiper for a few seconds, looking like he was a kid clinging to a the restraints on a roller coaster.

I hit 60. Mr. Locust abruptly let go. He soared off into the heavens, perhaps to fly away to hassle some poor snook in an orchard...or splatter at high impact against some unsuspecting fellow's windshield.

I reached work with a sense of relief, and a strange urge to tell everyone what had happened. I mean, it's not every day a giant locust is within five feet of me.

"Perhaps it's just an extremely robust grasshopper?" Mother Dearest suggested when I showed it to her.

I will reiterate the words uttered by Video Guy in the break room: "That's no grasshopper."

Or, as Miss J remarked, "It's the size of a small tree!"

Yeah.

That small tree was on my car, y'all.

The Would-Be Zombie Hunter

"I need a shotgun," I said to the cashier as I dumped my pistol on the counter. "This puny little thing won't do."

She looked at me, then at the diminutive plastic toy from the "Cowboys and Native Americans" collection.

"For my costume," I clarified, in case there was any doubt.

"I...don't think we can sell those," she said.

It was as I'd feared. Party City had all sorts of barbarian swords, bloodstained axes, machetes, and of course Freddy Krueger gloves...but the only thing vaguely resembling a projectile weapon looked...well, like something out of a Cracker Jack box.

"I'm a zombie hunter," I confided in her. "This thing is not going to be very effective against zombies."

She gave me a Look. There was also a Pause. I'm quite used to both of these; they usually accompany me telling an unsuspecting citizen that I used to work for a motorcycle magazine (they use the Look and the Pause to figure out if I'm a motorhead and where my tattoos are hidden). This girl, I'm sure, was wondering who let her out of the straitjacket?

The clerk cleared her throat. "I'm sure you can handle any zombie problems on your own, miss."

When in doubt, resort to flattery. I can appreciate that.

The only thing this unfortunate little weapon had going for it was that it came with a holster. Okay, cool - assuming I could figure out how to strap it to my leg without breaking it (I should add that it's probably made for nine-year-olds), maybe I could spray-paint it black? Oh, there was also the issue that there was only one left. It was now or never...and some kid in a cowboy hat was eying it.

I bought the silly little pistol and its holster. I figured I could spin a tale of the gun rusting, or getting so coated in blood and baking in the sun that it just turned...orange.

Of course, once I got home I realized that it was 90-something degrees and no way was I going to survive as Zoey in a red hoodie, gun or no gun. So I dove back into my closet and dug out a skirt and Yet Another Hot Topic Leftover From My Abortive Goth Phase. And that, mi amigos, was it.

The gun is still sitting in its package. I wonder if Party City takes returns on junky weapons...

Aw Crap. Cats.

I had just settled in to watch The Office when I heard the mewling.

Thought it might be a bird at first. Three minutes later it hadn't stopped; I muted the TV, and yes, it was definitely a kitty out there crying. It sounded close by.

I am a total sucker. I went outside.

I found Downstairs Mama already at my neighbor's front porch taking a peek. Downstairs Mama is - well, I don't know her name. She doesn't know mine. We exchange pleasantries and jokes when we see each other, and she'd heard the cat also. It was coming from the porch directly below mine...the apartment is inhabited by an old lady and (I think) her sister who might be a diabetic (or senile) - they often have screaming fights. But that's another post.

We looked around. Couldn't see a cat. One of the security guards came up to us, found out what was going on, and produced a giant flashlight. We found a cat hiding under a bench...a cat, and a teeny, tiny kitten.

The cat bolted.

Which brings me to the kitten.

The security guard is a former vet tech. I brought down a towel so we could at least keep the kitten warm. The guard handed me the kitten to hold while she put down the towel, and holy shit, he was brand new - still had the umbilical cord, eyes were closed. He started mewling again, but I cupped him in my hands and kept him warm and he shut right up and seemed to go to sleep.

Not gonna lie, I melted. I'm not even a cat person.

We put him in the towel and put some cat food down, hoping to lure Mama Cat back.

Meanwhile, I tried to get in touch with every cat person I knew, because if Mama Cat didn't come back and security guard/vet tech didn't come back like she promised, I for damn sure wasn't going to let that baby get eaten by a raccoon. I went so far as to get in touch with a local animal hospital, and the staffer curtly told me, "We're not open."

"Then why are you answering the phone?"

I loitered.

Finally, the guard came by with a lady in scrubs - one of her former coworkers, I guess - and they picked up the wee one. Mama Cat never returned.

As of now, Mama Cat (and possibly more kittens) are still at large; the little dude is safe and sound and hopefully will live a long, happy life. I am somewhat relieved that I didn't have to track down kitten formula in the middle of the night and feed him every two hours, even though I would have, because I am a bleeding heart and adore animals and would have named him Toby.

...man, if I ever get made permanent I'm getting a parakeet or something.

I'll keep in touch with the guard - I want to know how he's doing.

He was this little. He could fit into a teacup.

"Of course," Roomie points out, "they're cute when they're little. Then they grow up and become cats."

Meaningless Drabble

I am attending a party on Saturday. It is...costume-y.

I lack a costume.

I have a backup I've worn to a couple parties over the years, but it's hanging out in San Diego with my parents. Oops.

I am left with some leftover items of clothing picked up from Hot Topic over the years (whatever, at least I admit to it) and the Party City down the street. I'll probably see what PC's got in stock tomorrow, but if there isn't anything...

Anyway, my ideas:

1. Zoe from Left4Dead. Probably the easiest costume. Find a studded belt and red sweatshirt and I'm good to go; maybe a couple black-painted water pistols. If I really felt like going to town I could dye my hair black.
2. Leia. I'd prefer her Endor fighting outfit from Return of the Jedi; sadly, the only Leia costumes I've ever seen are a) Bunhead from A New Hope (white washes me out) and b) the Gold Bikini (requires more dieting than I'm willing to do; also it's cold out).
3. Pirate and/or Witch. There's plenty of those at PC.
4. Hot Topic Reject, which involves...uh...a black skirt and a corset, I guess. I wore it last year to a party. It's doable. This costume is also known as "metal singer" and "emo."

At the moment I'm waiting for the new episode of South Park to come on and daydreaming about ice cream.

Went for a good run today. Orange is getting into the holiday spirit...there's this house on my route that has steadily added to their diorama thing in the front yard. Last week there was just a gravestone. Now there's ghosts, goblins, diseased cats, and a myriad of ghoulish-looking things, some of which hang out of the tree in their front yard and present something of a hazard for anyone over five feet tall.

And oh, yes, it's now time for South Park. Hooray!

Back in Time

I've had an idea.

I lack a plot for this year's NaNo novel, which I have been scribbling at daily (against the rules, but that's how I roll). My best ideas usually come to me a) while falling asleep, or b) out running. So far I've got nothing. It's irritating.

Thought: go back and edit the first manuscript - the first a victim of several starts and stops - and...find a plot there? Or at least figure out where everyone is at the end (beyond arguing with one another, which I think is where I left them) and go from there.

"The Truth is Out There" by Sonata Arctica has been a source of inspiration. I get the impression Vibeke is searching for something - not sure what. Then there's this line: "I tried to make a deal..."

Okay, that's something. Maybe I can use this. Did she make a deal with someone? Did it go wrong?

Maybe she's on the run?

The Vibby in Evil isn't the sort to purposely get into trouble. But Armageddon changes people.

OK. Even if she made a deal and it went wrong and now she's running, I still have no villain. Or real problem.

Evil was a fun story to write. It had a severe identity crisis, but the characters were entertaining and I had a blast knocking it out (70k in 15 days!). Unfortunately, I did pull all the lot devices out of thin air, and the story reads somewhat disjointedly as a result. I stopped editing about halfway through it. My next course of action, maybe, will be to finish editing it - or at least get it into somewhat decent shape - before NaNo and then at least have a decent kickoff point for its sequel.

This should be...interesting.

Bad TV

"Audrina used to be nicer," my roommate said. "She was kind of dumb...now she's bitchier...and still kind of dumb."

Yes. We are watching The Hills.

I am reasonably certain there are better things I could be watching. Sadly, my brain has fried itself because I have yet to learn the art of moderation. I see my coworkers doing overtime and I feel compelled to pitch in. This is possibly because "teamwork" was a foreign work at my last job (the rodders, not the bikers) and I like being part of a team.

(Okay, I'm also saving up for an iPod Touch.)

Back to the moderation thing. After a long, long day at work, the last things I want to see are words (or that damned Saw VI preview, gross!). This has put a serious dent in the writing and reading. I've made the effort to get back into reading - that being the easier of the two - and the writing...

Well, I have two thousand words of Vibeke wandering around. Honestly, it reads like this: "Wow, the world after the apocalypse is bleak. There are not many people. I don't like ghosts. Also, I can't fix cars." I should probably figure out a plot before I go any further.

I'm starting to wonder if my life couldn't use a plot device. Or at least musical numbers.

On the plus side, I will survive a year after the zombie apocalypse. The quiz told me so.

(Of course, I'll also die when I step on my own land mine, which is sadly in keeping with the rest of my life.)

Lost in Azeroth: No Pizza in WoW

Hi, my name is Suz and I play World of Warcraft.

No, I don't know why, either.

I remember why I got into it - my group of friends played it through '06-07 and were always talking about it at parties...I was curious, but not curious enough to try it out until I was newly single in '08 (and thus had nothing to do, or at least that was how I justified it).

I was hooked.

I still have no idea why.

Yes, it's fun. I enjoy it. There are bright colors and exotic locales and goblins that talk like stereotypical New Yawkas. But even that gets old after awhile, right? So what's the draw?

I can't really say. There's something about WoW I can't quite put my finger on. Part of it is just plain exciting, particularly when you complete a quest or level up (triumphant music plays, people applaud, gold flecks appear, generally a great mood elevator). I feel like I muddle through life - a completed quest is a sign I did something right.

I think the people who get addicted and play for weeks and months at a time are just lost in their escapism. On one hand, what do I do with my life? I get up. I go to work. I go home. Sometimes I hang out with my roommate or friends (most of whom live far away) or do more work...try to write...am I content, yes, but am I doing anything with my life? Probably not. Then I have this paladin who goes out and actually saves people and does things that have an impact on the universe. Oh, she also has superpowers.

Well, which world would you pick?

I played for a couple of hours tonight - ran through an instance with a friend (that I see every day in real life!). Most days, that's about my limit. Eventually I get distracted or bored or just need to pry myself away from the machine for awhile.

It's fun. It's a couple of hours away from the mundane world that I presently live in. Still, Earth has one thing Azeroth doesn't:

Pizza.

My paladin has never eaten pizza.

I had pizza tonight.

I pick the pizza life.

Review: Urban Gothic

Apparently the Fed is now regulating blogging, and I'm supposed to provide full disclosure or something like that. So let it not be said I'm not a law-abiding citizen, except for that one time when I got my speeding ticket, or that, um, download that we won't talk about.

Disclosure: I bought Urban Gothic by Brian Keene at the bookstore. I paid for it. I read it. I am going to review it. Suck on it, Fed.

I've enjoyed Keene's work in the past; I first picked him up because the man wrote decent zombie stories. By decent, I mean he's actually a good writer that understands plot, pacing, character development, etc - most of the zombie novels out there are total drek and desperately in need of a decent copy editor, among other things. He also writes a pretty decent supernatural story. Every few months I spot a new title by him and pick it up.

Enter Urban Gothic, which is essentially The Hills Have Eyes meets The Haunting (creepy inbred mutants take over old Victorian, hapless teenagers stumble across it, horrifics ensue).

One of the reasons I like Keene's work is that he generally creates interesting, sympathetic characters.

Not this time.

Our heroes are a pack of obnoxious kids that I really want to smack around. Basically, Urban Gothic succeeds in that these brats get exactly what's coming to them. Out of the six kids, I was rooting for exactly one of them.

There's a secondary storyline in there about some neighborhood kids and an old man who are somewhat worried about the trapped teenagers and have to decide whether to "take back their hood." I found them far more interesting.

I guess my gripe is with the leads, as usual. The secondary characters - Leo and Watkins - are pretty damn cool. I've read a few stories where I despised the leads starting out and gradually came around to at least appreciating them, but...not here. I don't know. These kids have no redeeming qualities - they're not even funny.

As for the mutants, they're never fully explained. The house apparently sits atop a massive system of tunnels and caverns where I suppose the freaks live - the house itself is one massive booby trap. People go into it and don't come out. Hotel California and all that. There's this tiny throwaway scene where one of the girls riffles through some '30s-era photographs of the house, but other than that, there's no explanation of how the mutants got there, what they're doing, anything like that. I like explanations. Or at least attempts at it. "They've been living in the sewers for a billion years" is too much The People Under the Stairs for me.

Urban Gothic is also considerably over-populated by gratuitous grotesqueness. Keene is great at describing the gross, the nasty, the deformed, etc. He uses it to fantastic effect in his other novels. But he's just too over-the-top for me here. Yeah, me. I, the gross one, have been grossed out.

Anyway. 3/5 stars for me. It was an easy read, kept me occupied, but Keene is capable of much better.

...although now I have a hankering to watch that movie about the Mole People...

Plot? Who Needs It?

Well. I'm sure I will need it at some point.

I have a character. I have a setting. I have a backstory. I even have scenes thought out - people for her to encounter...

...and that's all.

I still have no plot.

Am building a playlist in hopes that something in the lyrics will jump out at me, but at the moment poor Vibeke is just wandering around because I told her to. I'm almost two thousand words into it, I need a damn storyline beyond a bunch of disjointed scenes.

I mean, I could do that, but that's not how I roll.

urgh.

Retail Therapy

Some women ease their frustration by shopping for shoes.

I buy books.

I have nothing against shoes, mind. I like them. They are excellent for protecting my feet against the elements. Some of them are also remarkably shiny. But they aren't my comfort poison.

Back to books.

While killing time before heading down to SD, I wandered to Barnes & Noble.

There's a B&N about five minutes away from me. I vividly remember making a beeline for it after receiving my first paycheck from this job - just indulging in books about pirates, whalers, and a couple general history selections.

(Not a knock on libraries - I love them, too - but the local branch of my landlocked city doesn't carry the stuff I'm after.)

October has had its effect on me; all but one of my selected titles have a supernatural theme. The only one that doesn't is Ariel, a reprint of an '80s novel that I remember hearing about but never actually reading. The rest? Let's just say The U.S. Army Guide to Zombie Combat will probably come in handy when dealing with one-on-ones this week.

Yeah. I bought it.

...sometimes my parents call me "the" instead of "suz."

Sad vs Bitter

I've been trying to decide if I feel sad or bitter today.

The whole "Ex is coming with us to the lake so, uh, you can't" situation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, that's for sure. But at the same time, I knew this sort of thing might happen. It was a guarantee. So maybe what I feel is just a bit of sadness that I won't be seeing some pals this weekend, relaxing in a cabin, or making use of my two o'clock departure time.

Well, I made some use of it. I went to Target and B&N and now I'm sitting here blogging.

Then there's San Diego Guy.

San Diego Guy is a fella I went out with a couple of times last year...well, early this year, I guess - he lives near my parents. I can't say we went on dates, but we would grab coffee and there was talk of visiting the Star of India at some point.

Then I got laid off.

And his interest evaporated.

Now, mind you, when I told the fellow of my unfortunate lack of employment, I wasn't looking for a pity party. I was receiving unemployment and doing some freelance work. Things were tighter than I wanted them to be, but I was certainly capable of continuing our coffee meetings.

Except he said, and this is a direct quote, "I don't think I can date someone who might be a mooch."

A mooch?

Me?

Okay, whatever, dude's a jerk, I'm cool.

Fast forward. I have a job. I am chilling like a villain in OC. I guess my mother spoke to his mother or something (it's a gated community...everyone talks to everyone else...our neighbor down the street, who I don't know by name, congratulated me last time she saw me) and I get a text from him saying "Hey! Let's hang out!"

My expression: O___o

Initial reaction: Delete! Don't talk to the chump!
Second reaction: Well, if I'm going to be down there this weekend anyway...

I'm trying to gauge my level of interest - if I'm just bummed about my friends by the lake and think he'll make up for it, if I'm a glutton for punishment, or if I'm curious. Maybe it's something of all three.

Anyway. My original point - to me, sad usually is just that - sad. Bitter always has kind of a vindictive edge...like "I'm sad....and I hope someone gets bitten by a jellyfish."

I am not at that point.

Bummed it is.

While rummaging around at B&N I came across Sense and Sensibility & Sea Monsters, which I assume is a companion to Pride and Prejudice & Zombies, which...is sitting on my shelf unread. I'm wondering what's next. Oliver and the Occult? David Copperfield and Demons?

Actually, not gonna lie: I'd read that.

Figurin' Stuffs Out

This is the first time I've been able to just sack out in front of the TV in...I don't know how long.

I find I have trouble thinking up subjects to blog about. My gut instinct is to start out with "Today I did this and that and my coworkers were zany and hooray for paychecks and Subway sandwiches."

I mean, my day did go pretty much that way. But that's boring.

Except for the Subway sandwich. That was enjoyable.

Oh! And the pizza that was brought to me today. That was particularly spectacular.

Highlight of the day, actually.

And now?

Now I don't know what to do with myself.

I've gotten so used to a) working and b) sleeping off the working that free time is...scary. Last weekend I had the two days to myself for the first time in awhile, and I had no clue what to do. Socialize? Read? Save the world?

I played WoW instead.

I am sure my paladin's actions affected someone in the pixilated realm.

...I need to rediscover my hobbies.

Fall

It feels like fall.

This is cause for celebration for two reasons - one, the cooler weather will spare my poor, abused sinuses, and two, the scent in the air.

Fall is when people start using their fireplaces. I love the smell of fireplaces.

It is my hope that when my sinuses clear up, the scent of fireplaces will permeate them.

The trees at my apartment complex have already dropped their leaves. I didn't really notice it last week - then again, I was working too much to notice much of anything - but yesterday I walked outside to head to work and they were all over the ground.

Fall means I can bust out my candles and light them up.

Sadly, fall also means bundling up when going running or walking. Ah well.

Hello October

I didn't even get to post a "Wake Me When September Ends" blog...damn.

September's gone and October's arrived. Tomorrow I pay my rent, attempt to clear up the last of the carry-overs from this week's Insane Hideousness (better known as The Week of Doom), and then in the evening...Zombieland.

No writing this week. Had enough to deal with working overtime. Maybe after a lot of sleep this weekend.

In short:
1. Crazy week.
2. Great paycheck coming.
3. ...not now.
4. Halloween costume. Now is the time.

Late-Night Thoughts

I'm relatively certain I wouldn't have ventured back to Vibeke and the End of the World without reading Earth Abides, a classic of '49 that imagines an emptied world following a plague.

I still have no idea if there's a plot or not attached to this. So far it's Vibeke just wandering around. She must have some mode of transportation - bike? horse? - and weaponry...don't know if she's communicating with people. Do cell phones work? Internet?

I'm wondering if this seed is something of a reflection of my current mood. I'm in a better position than my character, mentally...for example, the dead have not overrun my world, and I'm not traipsing around with a smart-aleck gun enthusiast, a Boy Scout, and fighting with my ex-turned-warlock (I...was that really my plot?).

But I do feel like I'm trying to feel out my place in life at the moment - new job/new world parallel, still feeling pretty lost even though there are familiar aspects of it.

I have to go back and read the original manuscript, but I'm pretty sure it turned into a weird fantasy novel 3/4 of the way through (plot device?).

...and dang, someone is really letting the garbage bin in the parking lot have it. Are we allowed to use it as a punching bag now?

I have no idea what to blog about.

There, I said it.

Words.

Had an idea. Started writing. Now I have 322 words that are probably really terrible, but at least they're words, you know? They're something.

I thought - very briefly - about bottling 'em up and saving them for NaNoWriMo in November, but...I think this year I'm just going to focus on getting 50,000 words - not necessarily starting a story from scratch. I can pick at it when I have time, then hopefully buckle down and get a nice chunk of it done.

I have no idea where it's going. I think it's a sequel to The Evil That Men Do from 2006 (aka At the End of the World, aka The Evil That Men Do: Or, How to Survive the End of the World Without Getting Eaten by Zombies.

The narrator seems to be the same. Not sure what she's doing wandering around yet (there's some vague explanation in the 322 words, but obviously I need to do some fleshing out), but she's lost her companions from Evil and seems to be on her own.

322. Not bad for a start.

Dramatic Intro Post

Hark, for here shall be the adventures of The Suz as she copy edits, writes, and generally blunders her way through life.

This blog is kind of a personal project for me - I've tailed off badly in writing since getting a new job, and I'm hoping to get back into the habit. Who knows what I'll post here? Book reviews, rants, psychobabble...zombies.

"Eerie Echoes" was named for a horse I used to ride...and a sparkly eye shadow I fancy. And the fact that I am totally weird.

You've been warned.