But know everything lost will be recovered
When you drift into the arms of the undiscovered.
–Ben Gibbard, “Me and Magdalena”
Run for your lives, she’s gone artsy. Which means, in this case, that she found a vintage effects photo app (actually, a lot of them) for her phone, has begun referring to herself in the third person, and was curious to see if she could make the usual deskscape look slightly more interesting. Jury is still out on that one, because A) a writer’s desk is always interesting, and B) I have no plans to change my desktop wallpaper any time soon, and C) even though I am writing this blog entry on my trusty pink laptop, I don’t particularly like taking pictures from the lap desk in the living room. Too much light, and now that I have my office looking more like an office and less like the wake of a hurricane, not to mention that the weather, while not autumnal by any stretch of the imagination, is cool enough for me to actually want tea this morning, so that’s what I have. I have also gone back to using first person, so there is that, as well.
Apparently, the vintage app thinks I am always in Instagram, and automatically crops square. Not sure how on board I am with that, but, for today, since I am sticking to my schedule, and actually really excited to get back to ruining Hero and Heroine’s lives (it will be okay in the end, I promise; I write romance, so the endings are always happy) so there is no time for the overthinkings. What there is time for is this blog entry, and then popping appropriate files onto my nifty pink (I do not know how it started, but my electronics are pink now, whenever possible) flash drive, so that I can do the actual work in my office, until/unless I decide it’s coffee house time. Then, the laptop gets to be the star. Unless I decide it’s a paper day, but pink laptop makes me happy, so we will see.
This past weekend can be summed up with “summer is trying to kill me.” Too much time out in the sun, running errands, left me with zero energy, so, once I poured myself into my comfy chair, in front of the fan, and hugged the ice pack of the hour, I basically did two things: I read and I napped. Seriously, I was a reading machine, and now that I’ve found how to track progress for what I’m reading on Goodreads, I have proof. Interestingly enough, I’ve also found that the point where I am most likely to wander off from a book is right before the midpoint. That’s when I’m pedaling my metaphorical bike up the metaphorical hill, get a leg cramp, hop off and call a metaphorical cab. Push a little bit farther, though, and I’m over the hump, and can take my feet off the pedals, stick my legs straight out and yell “wheeeee!” while I coast down the hill, wind in my hair and joy in my veins. This all gets me thinking if the same holds true to some of the partial manuscripts lingering in various drives. Not talking about the miscarried stories; a writer knows what stories are dead and which ones are merely resting.
Backing up a tad to clarify that one could count me as doing three things when not running errands, because, half the time I napped, I had my earbuds in and there was technically music playing. I can’t say that I was always listening-listening to it, but I was taking it in, because this was some serious well filling. I highly recommend serious well filling. Earworm of the moment is “Me and Magdalena,” by the Monkees, written by Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie. The mere concept of The Monkees after the passing of Davy Jones was something I didn’t want to think about, for a long time. I fell in love with The Monkees, watching reruns on TV when I was but wee little princess, bonded with college friends over same (:waves to Heather and Carolin:) and have done more than a few virtual fistpumps when a once upon a time friend wrote about how badass the Monkees actually were, because, dang, they really could make their own music, and fought for it, and won, and, even after Davy’s passing, here they still are. Plus, there was the lyric video right there on my Facebook page when the album first came out, and, reader, I clicked on it.
Oh, my heart. Yes. That. So completely, totally that. Nothing big, and yet, and yet, bam, there was a complete, vivid, image, of that one perfect moment in the narrator’s world. I felt the wind, and the sun (without it draining me, miracle of miracles) and that long drive along the coast, when life is infinite and love rules over all. Yes. I want to do that. I want to make that. I want to be that. I want to put that in my stories and give others that moment.
I also inhaled, among other things, One Hundred Summers, by Beatriz Williams. Oh my stars. Oh my gravy.Yes. That is historical romance, people. Technically, there may be some wiggle room on the historical aspect, as the 1930s are still within living memory, and my personal definition of historical romance is loosely prior to that, but my review, so I’m going with what feels right. I won’t repeat my Goodreads gushing here, but you can read it on your own:
Both of those things twined around the latest episode of Fear The Walking Dead, which I liked okay before, but am totally on board with now, because they, too, did things I didn’t expect, took me places I didn’t think I was going to go, or wanted to go, but the gasping and the jumping and the “Oh man, I cannot wait to get to HLFK in the morning,” that’s my barometer of getting into something good. Cue Herman’s Hermits.
Okay, far past the magic 700 -do I need to give myself a cap for maximum length?- so I will close with this: both of my current commercial fiction projects are taking me places I didn’t know I was going to go. Ask me a year ago, and I’d have kicked and screamed and laughed at the idea (derisively, not from amusement) AND YET, here I am, and I’m not bashing my head against a brick wall, sobbing about how much I suck, etc. Instead, yeah, make that tea, pop those files on that drive, and let’s take that leap. You with me?