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Happy Birthday, Sarah!
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So this was a thing that happened. IDRIS dress? Turned out awesome. The Part Like a Timelord party? Indescribable. 






IDRIS dress WIP and Phoenix Comic-Con pics...Collapse )
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I suck. I've got about five days left and, what, a little less than 40,000 words I really ought to write.

Seriously. What the fuck else are you gonna do, nepnthe? I couldn't care less how cute Bunny is right now. Call the parents, finish this stupid book so you can get on with your life.

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I have been working on my book, which is good. Did about six pages today, which is about 2,000 words. Not bad. I'm not sure how far along I am altogether, but I can say with certainty that it's not as far along as I need to be. Sucks. In part it's because I'm at a place that's exposition. A lot of exposition, and weirdness, with the aliens having swooped in and taken Mallory to a shady kind of motel in New Mexico, 1997, situated next door to the Alien Shipwreck Souvenir and Jerky shop. 

Where else would the resistance set up their headquarters?  Duh.

 

I was a bit down today. Nothing for it, though. Being unemployed is a downer. Not that I expect to write my way out of this mess, but a girl can try.

 

I wish coffee at the cafe Monica’s weren’t so expensive. *Sigh*. I can make due with what I have and getting comfy with Bunny on my bed. It’s not as though I plan to stay unemployed forever.



Current Mood:
discontent discontent
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A lot has happened since my last post. I won NaNoWriMo with about half a book to show for it.  I went to Japan for about 11 days and spent five of them with a cold. Got laid off from my job. Moved out of the apartment I've shared with my twin for almost three years to stay with the chica I roomed with about a year and a half ago when Chrissy was out on her first tour.

So all this . . . stuff has been mixed and squeezed and now all my stuff is settled into its new room. I'm not dead. I'm set for severance for this week and the next two (even if that paycheck will be taxed at a higher rate, it's still getting paid, no?). I fully qualify for and will take advantage of unemployment . . .

And I feel fine.

Okay, to be fair, maybe not that fine. I keep telling myself it is fine because it is. I know how to ration. I've never been a rabid spender. I have a budget and I can stick to it well enough, bar emergencies--I'm looking at you, Bunny. Yet in spite of the knowledge that I know I can scrimp and save and deal without, I find that the mere fact I have a budget, one with such a tight squeeze it doesn't allow for the casual coffee or driving where ever, when ever, restrictions on books and might impact my health coverage (must find my own at the end of Feb)--it's constricting. Not suffocating because I know I can manage for awhile, but it's--it's the same reason diets don't work. To diet, you have to think about the diet, and thinking about the diet means you think about all the food you ‘can't’ have, which makes you crave and obsess over the food you 'can't' have.

The answer? Lifestyle change. Buffy might need to do an overhaul of her routine, which, if I think about it, won't be much of an overhaul.

Bunny wakes me up every weekday morning at the same time I got up for the job I no longer have--6:14 AM to the button. I'd prefer a little later, but Bunny is persistent, and early means I have the apartment to myself until noon, when Lisa gets out of bed.

I hereby declare the approximate time between 7-12 (or later) The Writing Hours, or as I will henceforth refer to them: The Hours. I say 7 because I'd like to spend a little time putting clothes on and making myself some oatmeal for breakfast. And coffee.

I'll cross the bridge of telling my parents about my employment status . . . maybe this Friday. They'll find out soon enough. I won't have to face anything but mild condescension over the phone once a month and gripes over me mooching off unemployment which I won’t hear, because it’ll be behind my back to people I don’t care about.

Lifestyle change. New job: writer to author. If all the walls that are closing in don't crush me first.  

Current Mood:
anxious anxious
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I've got a lot of news, but I chose to focus on what matters most: WriMo word count. I currently stand at 33,518-ish which is a mere 1600 words below where I need to be; at least I've managed to keep my head up and not sunk impossibly further down the hole. In fact, I'm sort of flying in my own Wri-Mo cheating way.  I was surprised to open my mail and find Chris cheering WriMos on for getting through their first week, which made me respond with: WE'VE ONLY MADE IT THROUGH ONE WEEK?! Well, for those who aren't cheating, it is. I started cracking the whip on myself the last week of October.

Other big news: Christina is pregnant. Congratulations. I still think you're insane, but this is a sort of huge life changing event for the family, so. I will be supportive in my own distant way. And I say distant, because there is now no way in hell I'm moving in with them. 

Cute with Chris rocked. And I need to shower, WriMo and watch Sarah Connor before bed.

 

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WriMo update: over the past two days I did about 1,400 words. Not bad, but not fantastic. I'm about 2,000 words off schedule. Not insurmountable. And I think one of the most historic elections of my lifetime is enough of an excuse to slack off a little. As long as I make up for it.

I went to a coffee house called Monica's for WriMo tonight. It was a nice place, if a good deal chilly thanks to the back door being wide open. And they have a stray kitty who likes to wander through.

 

Since I want to do a repeat of the work I did tonight, I think I'll head back tomorrow. Gotta work, gotta get a book done.

Current Mood:
determined determined
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I suppose I'm going to fall behind another day in WriMoing (I know, I know. I'll regret it later). But I feel the need to write a rhetorical letter to the characters on the Sarah Connor Chronicles.

 

Sarah: You are awesome. You are kickass. You make Broklyn cops wish they had stones like you. That being said, YOU CAN EAT A DOUGHNUT ONCE IN AWHILE.

 

Agent Ellison: You keep doing what you do. I have every confidence you’ll work out that the lady you working for, Shirley Manson, is a terminator sent to ensure the building of SkyNet.

 

Shirley Manson: Don’t remember the name of your terminator, sorry. I know that the writers have given you the worst lines of this series (“You piss me off, too” as she kills a guy using a urinal? Writers, WTF?!). It’s also not your fault the effects people kind of suck or that they don’t have the money for all the morphing special effects and do a bad job with the obviously fake ‘transition’ cuts. You do an awesome job with what have control over: the music, and playing an evil terminator who also tries to be Mommy to a little girl (when you’ve killed that girl’s real Mommy and Daddy). And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to top the “cow’s blood” line. That. Was. The. Best. Evil. Reveal. EVER.   

 

Cameron: I want to watch the show where you beat the crap out of people all the time, and practice ballet in the hopes you will stop being ‘mechanical’ (it may work out better if you don’t stand by and watch as your instructor is killed). I want to see more of you walking in slow motion to Shirley Mason songs as you leave a trail of destruction; the building going up in flames and bodies piling up. And then shoot three idiots, not for stealing your diamonds or endangering the Connors, but because they took your leather jacket. A woman’s gotta have priorities. You are hella awesome, Cameron. Do me a favor and punch the producers for not having enough of you.

 

Pregnant Neighbor Lady: You and the baby whale you’re about to pop out are awesome for your sheer randomness.

 

John Connor: *sigh*. Where to begin with you, young man? Last season, your adolescent griping might have been a little annoying, but it was legitimate and I could empathize.  After all, you’re not ten anymore. You managed to duck and dodge psycho terminators gunning you down at school. You respectfully call your mother the greatest soldier you know. And yet there comes a time in every adolescent’s life that they realize their parents can’t protect them from all the evils of the outside world, and they usually discover this sooner than their parents are ready for or expect. I loved it when you confronted Sarah and told her that you weren’t going to be a hero someday; you’re a hero now and she can’t expect you to always stand by and do nothing. Why would anyone expect John Connor, who is old enough to pick up a gun, to stay at home washing dishes? I commended you for getting into that truck and thwarting that terminator’s plans against your mother’s wishes. You’re a big damn hero too.

I forgive you for going a little wack in the head. It’s not easy to be the “someone who gets other people killed,” as Zoe would say.  

Then there was this season. You started off so well. First, you cut your 90’s hair and burned the flannel. Thank you, the ladies appreciate. Then you had to deal with Cameron going insane and trying to kill you. You’d been able to deal with her being a terminator by the simple fact that she was your terminator. As you told Sarah, “She saves me.”  You forged an emotional bond to your terminator because you have a big heart and so when Cameron turned on you, it felt like betrayal. Then, when you saved her miserable robotic life, Cameron goes and says your judgment can’t be trusted anymore. For not destroying her because you love her.

Now the family has a nice house and you get to go to a nice school while your mother and Cameron and uncle get to go out and fight the battle. While you’re supposed the go to school. I know what this is. You’re jealous that your mom gets to go out and have fun all day long with your terminator and you don’t get to play with Cameron at all.  You also killed a man. Sure, Sarah’s done it for you. People die in your name all the freakin’ time. But apparently, some invisible line you might not have known existed was crossed in that action, even if it was to save your mother.

John, this is an intervention. You are now an emo, it’s pissing me off, and it has a name: Riley, aka, “Mary Sue who needs her ass terminated.” I don’t know what your writers were thinking when they introduced her. When Cameron became Sarah’s side-kick this season, you didn’t have anyone to have exposition or emotional conversations with, so they decided to add in some random, annoying blonde schoolmate. But I know what she is to you John Connor and it’s a two parter: A) Rebound B) Most expedient way to Rebel against Sarah’s rule.

A: You’ve been in denial about your feelings for Cameron from, “Come with me if you want to live.” You love computers, you’re good with them, you love kick-ass women *cough*Oedipus complex*cough*, and we all saw your face when Cameron was screaming that she loved you and begging you not to kill her. So come on. Admit it. Riley is you looking for the person that most isn’t Cameron and another way for you to try and avoid having to be John Conner. You’re wrapping yourself in the foamy bubble that is John Baum. Take your lesson from the Doctor, John: denial doesn’t make the feelings go away. And we all know Riley must die. She contributes nothing to the underlying plot and therefore, is expendable. Thank God.

B: If there is one sure way to keep out of trouble it’s to follow this advice: listen to your mother. If you listened to your mother, you’d always be safe. The problem is, you’re John Connor and there’s no such thing as safe. I get it: your mother needs to get it in her head that this baby bird needs to follow momma on her hunts if he’s to become a hunter in his own right; that means getting in the line of fire now and then. That is the angle you should have approached tonight’s hissy fit from. The whole “why didn’t you protect me from me” speech was freakin’ lame. It’s akin to, “I wish I’d never been born,” only worse, because all Sarah’s trying to do is keep you alive. That’s all she does, day and night, night and day. If you wanted a leg to sand on for this argument, you might have complained how you might be ‘alive,’ but you’re not ‘living’ or some other such.

Last season, instead of bitching and moaning and dragging in a Mary Sue who can’t staple her face back on after it’s been shot off, you rebelled by taking action against the terminators.  Now, you’re being lame. You’re not trying to become a hero against your mother’s best intentions to keep you alive. Noooo, you’re sitting on the couch, brooding about the misery of your life, and then you take it out on Sarah (who just spent her day rounding up everyone’s stone IDs and money which wouldn’t have been stolen if you weren’t sneaking in your Mary Sue through the window. Thanks a lot for nearly getting everyone killed, John).

John, at this rate, your whininess is overshadowing the empathy I have for what you’re whining about. Yes, it sucks to be you. It would suck less to be you if you’d give us a sign that you have the fabled John Connor somewhere inside you.

 

Sarah (again): You want to protect your son and savior of the world. Totally understandable. But, uh, at some point in time, you need to let him become that savior, and that means he has to be able to leave the house now and again. Oh, and you probably should have mentioned the killing people thing and how it can mess with your head awhile back. I mean that in the most concerned way possible.

Pleasedon’thurtme.  

 

 

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I need to be off to bed, but I before I throw in the towel, i just want to post to the universe that I did 3,133 words today. Yeah, that's no typo. 3,133. And that was working on what's likely the most important part of the book to get right. It's not perfect yet, but I think I managed to get a little closer to that scene working. And a few baby steps closer to getting this story out of my head and into a format for the masses. 

 Not to belittle the work I've done, but I'm still about 1500 words short of the schedule I set for myself.  After the trouble I had last year, I know it's important to aim for the schedule if you don't want to become completely disillusioned by Nov. 20th-ish and give up.

So. Time for bed. Will keep up with my progress as the month continues.

Ten words is triumph, ten words is triumph . . .

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