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Working on british 11s... Friday, May 16th • 7:56PM

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Friday, May 16th • 2:58PM

Dallas is probable. We have lists, printed and hand-scrawled, pretty much everywhere: car, bathrooms, nightstands, kitchen counter. An archaeologist would have a great time figuring out our life. Art, technology, food, word lists, planting projects -- all intermixed and interwoven. You can't just do one thing, not in this house. If you are cooking, you are studying sowpods; if you are hiking, you are arguing about copyrights; if you are sleeping -- well, you are sleeping, but college kids tromp through at all hours...

If you are quiet, you are thinking, and the things you are thinking are so much fun.

I did not finish my round two story by my deadline of midnight last night. I'm learning to have mercy on myself, but bah, that's a whole critique session I'm missing out on. That hurts. Life is just not quiet and studious these days, and I have to accept that. It will be again, and today has value of its own, and I'm determined to appreciate it, to wallow in the wonderfulness of the moment I am in. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I really, really did not want to miss that deadline.

Breathe in, breathe out, and take another step, neh?

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Pick one's heroes carefully Thursday, May 15th • 6:12PM

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

- Douglas Adams

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Misplacing Wednesday, May 14th • 12:55PM

Last night, tired, I'm trying to come up with the name of the book I'm looking for. We have thousands of books, and we have not yet organized them post-merge. It's about ravens, I remember. It probably has the word "raven" in the title. The cover is red and black, I think, and I point unhelpfully at a red and black cover on the shelf, as though John doesn't know what red and black looks like.

Then I start trying to remember author. "I'm coming up with Dmitri, but I know that's not it."

John gamely makes some suggestions, which I ignore.

"Like Peter, but not spelled that way," I say. "Like Dmitri Heimlich." I look at the books in the bedroom, but they are no help.

"Aaagh," I say. "It's probably Bob Wilson or something unstrange at all."

"Maybe it's pronounced Peter but spelled Bob," John suggests. He is an awfully patient person.

"All I know is it might have raven in the title and there's a missing vowel somewhere. Or a misplaced one."

John pulls up amazon on his phone. "Ah, The Mind of the Raven, Bernd Heinrich."

"That's it!"

What kind of wacko memory system can do this, skirt all around the solution -- withOUT coming up with the actual answer? Why does my brain categorize titles and names into categories like "misspelled"? The mind of a human, that's the book I should write.

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How science is not literature Tuesday, May 13th • 11:41AM

You won't hear neurologists say (often): "well, you have to learn how to do brain surgery correctly before you are allowed to break the rules."

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3 am Monday, May 12th • 9:02PM

Why do I write science fiction?

This is the important question for me this week. I worry that what I'm creating is nonsense, is just flat genre crap, paper dolls with lightsabers. The second TNEO deadline looming ominously might have something to do with this. My insomnia, also, although the TNEO deadline did not have anything to do with me imitating a banshee at three in the morning when I discovered that my very wonderful daughter was giggling loudly on the phone with her male friend from out of state. That was just my maternal madness. Maternal madness explains many things, including most ridiculous threats, i.e., if you don't hang up this second I will throw that phone AWAY. In the light of day, this is not much of a threat, since, a., the phone belongs to me, b., there are many more phones in the house, and c., I don't throw things away. At worst, I would have freecycled it.

Anyway, if I have a point, it is this: I am still after all these many years struggling to find my way. I want to laugh hollowly when my 20-year-olds say they don't know what they are doing with their lives. "Wait until you are 40!" I do say. But who does know their way? Stock brokers? Physicists? (I think physicists know that none of us actually know anything.)

Which brings me back to science fiction or, as I like to call it, odd little stories. The stories of people who seem to be monsters, who turn out to be misunderstood, or people who seem to be monsters who really are monsters, albeit misunderstood. The stories of the ends of the worlds, all of them. My own childhood, as tragic and hilarious as every other person's (except for stockbrokers), dressed up in scary masks and hats. But this is part of all fiction, right? So why science fiction? Maybe because I adore it so very much. I adore the great what-ifs. It is fun for me, and if I enjoy what I'm doing, it is better. It approaches art. Once in a great while, it IS art.

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Kitchen World Scrabble venue Saturday, May 10th • 11:30AM

Key:

On the windowsill are the pots that various offspring made from kindergarten to second grade. Most kids made lumpy ashtray things. Mine made lumpy castles and monsters (and ashtrays). One of the pots gets knocked off every day. I don't know why it hasn't broken yet.

Bookshelves were a Christmas present from John when I was in the apartment. This is the third time he has installed them.

Sagan the cat is not allowed on the table. She pretends amazement whenever we attempt to enforce this.

The paintings are part of a series my sister did when she was in art school. I wish she would paint more, but she is currently obsessed with dressage.

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Friday, May 9th • 10:36PM

I got the heck whacked out of me in World scrabble tonight. (Kitchen World scrabble, that is.) I'm now four games back in the Great Tournament of John and Marsh.

Four is a lot.

The boards are very very worldly now, full of IWI and JETSONS.

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Monday, May 5th • 11:42AM

Despite our efforts, we didn't manage to make it to club yesterday. (We did all the other things on our lists, I think, including planting the spinach for the neighborhood deer to steal, getting ready to plant the tomatoes for the neighborhood squirrels, and hand-delivering the neighborhood malamute back to his worried family.)

So last night, armed with 2 hours of sleep and some wine, we played two games of Scrabble at the kitchen table. Hoo boy. At one point, no lie, John pointed at a three letter word and said "is that good?" I said, "uh oh!" I really thought it was possible that it wasn't a british three. "Oh, wait," we decided. "It's not even british. It's one of ours." It was real, quality scrabble-brand entertainment.

The June Texas tournament is worrisomely underpopulated, still, with a dropout today. It's scheduled 6 weeks before nationals; I think there is significant fear of list contamination. Understandable, but really frustrating.

There was this gal who used to play noggin who would gripe about words. "ESTROGEN? What kind of abomination is that? Some kind of variation on OESTROGEN? Preposterous!" (She used words like preposterous frequently.) I pointed out that it is the preferred spelling here in the United States, and I am sure she didn't believe me. I get the feeling that there are a lot of analogs of Ms. Clare here in the states. "OESTROGEN? Who uses words like that?" Oh, I dunno, half the English speakers maybe.

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A quiet morning Saturday, May 3rd • 11:28AM

All the people in my life are out doing important things: working, errands, whatever Emmy does when she is out, thinking of traveling home from college "sometime soon", and so forth. The dog is nowhere to be seen.

I stayed home from errands to work on TNEO stuff. My work style is chaotic and baffling to people outside my brain, I'm sure. I have to do things in a certain way: that certain way is to follow my brain where it leads, even if it leads to running upstairs to look up a Calvin and Hobbes strip. Muses aren't will o' wisps, I guess, but usually they feel like that. I jump around the internet and go for agitated walks. Eventually, my brain says, "aha, found it!" and then it comes. It ALWAYS works this way.

But when I say to my adoring family-fans, "don't interrupt me, I'm working", what are they to think? Oh, working. That's what she calls it.

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Working on british 11s...	Friday, May 16th • 7:56PM


3 comment(s) \| Leave one

	Friday, May 16th • 2:58PM

Dallas is probable. We have lists, printed and hand-scrawled, pretty much everywhere: car, bathrooms, nightstands, kitchen counter. An archaeologist would have a great time figuring out our life. Art, technology, food, word lists, planting projects -- all intermixed and interwoven. You can't just do one thing, not in this house. If you are cooking, you are studying sowpods; if you are hiking, you are arguing about copyrights; if you are sleeping -- well, you are sleeping, but college kids tromp through at all hours... If you are quiet, you are thinking, and the things you are thinking are so much fun. I did not finish my round two story by my deadline of midnight last night. I'm learning to have mercy on myself, but bah, that's a whole critique session I'm missing out on. That hurts. Life is just not quiet and studious these days, and I have to accept that. It will be again, and today has value of its own, and I'm determined to appreciate it, to wallow in the wonderfulness of the moment I am in. It's a lot harder than it sounds. I really, really did not want to miss that deadline. Breathe in, breathe out, and take another step, neh?
Leave one

Pick one's heroes carefully	Thursday, May 15th • 6:12PM

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." - Douglas Adams
2 comment(s) \| Leave one

Misplacing	Wednesday, May 14th • 12:55PM

Last night, tired, I'm trying to come up with the name of the book I'm looking for. We have thousands of books, and we have not yet organized them post-merge. It's about ravens, I remember. It probably has the word "raven" in the title. The cover is red and black, I think, and I point unhelpfully at a red and black cover on the shelf, as though John doesn't know what red and black looks like. Then I start trying to remember author. "I'm coming up with Dmitri, but I know that's not it." John gamely makes some suggestions, which I ignore. "Like Peter, but not spelled that way," I say. "Like Dmitri Heimlich." I look at the books in the bedroom, but they are no help. "Aaagh," I say. "It's probably Bob Wilson or something unstrange at all." "Maybe it's pronounced Peter but spelled Bob," John suggests. He is an awfully patient person. "All I know is it might have raven in the title and there's a missing vowel somewhere. Or a misplaced one." John pulls up amazon on his phone. "Ah, The Mind of the Raven, Bernd Heinrich." "That's it!" What kind of wacko memory system can do this, skirt all around the solution -- withOUT coming up with the actual answer? Why does my brain categorize titles and names into categories like "misspelled"? The mind of a human, that's the book I should write.
5 comment(s) \| Leave one

How science is not literature	Tuesday, May 13th • 11:41AM

You won't hear neurologists say (often): "well, you have to learn how to do brain surgery correctly before you are allowed to break the rules."
6 comment(s) \| Leave one

3 am	Monday, May 12th • 9:02PM

Why do I write science fiction? This is the important question for me this week. I worry that what I'm creating is nonsense, is just flat genre crap, paper dolls with lightsabers. The second TNEO deadline looming ominously might have something to do with this. My insomnia, also, although the TNEO deadline did not have anything to do with me imitating a banshee at three in the morning when I discovered that my very wonderful daughter was giggling loudly on the phone with her male friend from out of state. That was just my maternal madness. Maternal madness explains many things, including most ridiculous threats, i.e., if you don't hang up this second I will throw that phone AWAY. In the light of day, this is not much of a threat, since, a., the phone belongs to me, b., there are many more phones in the house, and c., I don't throw things away. At worst, I would have freecycled it. Anyway, if I have a point, it is this: I am still after all these many years struggling to find my way. I want to laugh hollowly when my 20-year-olds say they don't know what they are doing with their lives. "Wait until you are 40!" I do say. But who does know their way? Stock brokers? Physicists? (I think physicists know that none of us actually know anything.) Which brings me back to science fiction or, as I like to call it, odd little stories. The stories of people who seem to be monsters, who turn out to be misunderstood, or people who seem to be monsters who really are monsters, albeit misunderstood. The stories of the ends of the worlds, all of them. My own childhood, as tragic and hilarious as every other person's (except for stockbrokers), dressed up in scary masks and hats. But this is part of all fiction, right? So why science fiction? Maybe because I adore it so very much. I adore the great what-ifs. It is fun for me, and if I enjoy what I'm doing, it is better. It approaches art. Once in a great while, it IS art.
5 comment(s) \| Leave one

Kitchen World Scrabble venue	Saturday, May 10th • 11:30AM

Key: On the windowsill are the pots that various offspring made from kindergarten to second grade. Most kids made lumpy ashtray things. Mine made lumpy castles and monsters (and ashtrays). One of the pots gets knocked off every day. I don't know why it hasn't broken yet. Bookshelves were a Christmas present from John when I was in the apartment. This is the third time he has installed them. Sagan the cat is not allowed on the table. She pretends amazement whenever we attempt to enforce this. The paintings are part of a series my sister did when she was in art school. I wish she would paint more, but she is currently obsessed with dressage.
3 comment(s) \| Leave one

	Friday, May 9th • 10:36PM

I got the heck whacked out of me in World scrabble tonight. (Kitchen World scrabble, that is.) I'm now four games back in the Great Tournament of John and Marsh. Four is a lot. The boards are very very worldly now, full of IWI and JETSONS.
2 comment(s) \| Leave one

	Monday, May 5th • 11:42AM

Despite our efforts, we didn't manage to make it to club yesterday. (We did all the other things on our lists, I think, including planting the spinach for the neighborhood deer to steal, getting ready to plant the tomatoes for the neighborhood squirrels, and hand-delivering the neighborhood malamute back to his worried family.) So last night, armed with 2 hours of sleep and some wine, we played two games of Scrabble at the kitchen table. Hoo boy. At one point, no lie, John pointed at a three letter word and said "is that good?" I said, "uh oh!" I really thought it was possible that it wasn't a british three. "Oh, wait," we decided. "It's not even british. It's one of ours." It was real, quality scrabble-brand entertainment. The June Texas tournament is worrisomely underpopulated, still, with a dropout today. It's scheduled 6 weeks before nationals; I think there is significant fear of list contamination. Understandable, but really frustrating. There was this gal who used to play noggin who would gripe about words. "ESTROGEN? What kind of abomination is that? Some kind of variation on OESTROGEN? Preposterous!" (She used words like preposterous frequently.) I pointed out that it is the preferred spelling here in the United States, and I am sure she didn't believe me. I get the feeling that there are a lot of analogs of Ms. Clare here in the states. "OESTROGEN? Who uses words like that?" Oh, I dunno, half the English speakers maybe.
7 comment(s) \| Leave one

A quiet morning	Saturday, May 3rd • 11:28AM

All the people in my life are out doing important things: working, errands, whatever Emmy does when she is out, thinking of traveling home from college "sometime soon", and so forth. The dog is nowhere to be seen. I stayed home from errands to work on TNEO stuff. My work style is chaotic and baffling to people outside my brain, I'm sure. I have to do things in a certain way: that certain way is to follow my brain where it leads, even if it leads to running upstairs to look up a Calvin and Hobbes strip. Muses aren't will o' wisps, I guess, but usually they feel like that. I jump around the internet and go for agitated walks. Eventually, my brain says, "aha, found it!" and then it comes. It ALWAYS works this way. But when I say to my adoring family-fans, "don't interrupt me, I'm working", what are they to think? Oh, working. That's what she calls it.
Leave one

Beyond Memorization