One of my ever-lasting favorite writers, of any genre and form.
Have you ever been writing and have to pause to take a roll call about which characters are where and what they’re doing during a scene?
“Let’s see, Kanrin, Richard, Handley, Forus Ker, and Brett are in here (the lounge on Wrinkle). It’s Richard’s POV. Handley (burger and tots) and Kanrin (chicken sandwich and coffee bulb) are eating. Forus Ker is standing and staying mute. Brett is sitting and drinking beer. Philea is in the command section (next chapter). Pram is in the cargo area (about to go Hulk) (two chapters away). Anyone missing? Nope, that’s the seven. The rest are all elsewhere.”
Okay, now that I have that straight….
Imfloof Buying (catfinition) – when a cat takes over unplanned control of your purchases.
In use: “My cat stepped on my Kindle Fire, and voila! I had a new thriller, courtesy of imfloof buying.”
h/t to Nancy Smith
A velvet rain is falling. It’s a rain that makes the world feel cozier and more intimate, inviting deeper thoughts.
I’d planned to walk ten minutes but the rain soothed me, inviting me to keep going. I did, until two miles and an hour had passed.
The rain didn’t appear to soothe all. Some drivers took the rain as a sign to go, “Faster! Faster!”
The walking time allowed for solitude and writing time. I’d dropped into my personal trough the other day in the cycles of buoyancy and depression. Oh, lord, that darkness. Daunting, it drinks me up and swallows me down. The sighs are heavy, the thoughts are bitter, and the world looks grim. Even the cats’ attentions are infuriating irritations.
Perspective helps me survive. Writing, walking, and solitude help me grind out perspective. Alas, Schedules and events kept me from consistently achieving two of the three. But yeah, I survived.
Our new microwave and range were delivered and installed yesterday. They look so modern, I was surprised to realize how ancient the replaced ten-year-old units looked, and the difference it makes to the kitchen. To celebrate, we went out to lunch, and then to a movie.
The movie is part of our annual Oscar Quest. Friends throw a party, and we like to be able to think and talk intelligently about the movies and performances. We’ve only seen a few noms, so we’re behind. We saw “The Post” yesterday. That increases our total to four. We have work to do in our entertainment. None of the previews (“Love, Simon,” “Red Sparrow,” “7 Days in Entebbe,” and “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool”) didn’t inflame deep interest. Each struck me as something to stream and watch at home when it’s available through one of our subscriptions. Of the four, “Love, Simon,” sparked the most intrigue. I suppose I’m too picky and cynical.
As the lights dropped and the previews played, and then the movie opened, my writers emerged with scene ideas. When we returned home, I quietly sat down (quietly, so as to not attract the cats, who seemed determined to stop me from writing at home) at the laptop, opened the required doc, and wrote the scene and changes. Not interested in tempting fate (the cats! the cats!), I saved and closed the doc, but later, while eating, more writing visited me. I stole back into the document and added a few more pages. Best, it left me knowing exactly where to begin today.
It’s a fine feeling, to know what to write, to write it, and to look forward to writing more.
Liquid dripped onto the coffee shop table as I unpacked and set up. Rain or sweat? I don’t know; either were plausible. I suppose I could taste it, but it’s not a critical difference.
Tonight, Wednesday, is when I meet with my friends for conversation and beer. It’s a standing invitation. My attendance record is lackluster but the rain is whispering, “You should go.” I’m ambivalent, but contemplating it.
Meanwhile, the first gulps of hot, black coffee have scalded my lips and tongue. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
1973 wasn’t the best of years for me.
I became seventeen that year. I’d moved in with my father the year before, 1972. He retired from the Air Force, and we moved to West Virginia. We bought a place, and it burned down. Just about all the few possessions I had when I quit living with Mom were gone. We didn’t have insurance. The paperwork and payment were on the dining room table, and burned.
I was hoping for better with 1973. It went great for a while, but then I cut off the end of my big toe while cutting the grass with a gas-powered lawn mower. That took me out of sports and doing many things. Frequently a loner, I retreated into art, music, and reading, which were always my natural sanctuaries.
Fortunately, ’73 was a good year for music. This song, “Drift Away” performed and released by Dobie Gray, summed up the year for me.
Beginnin’ to think that I’m wastin’ time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
Now I’m countin’ on you to carry me through
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Yeah, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me
And when I’m feelin’ blue
The guitar’s comin’ through to soothe me
Floofus Interruptus (catfinition) – a break in uniformity or continuity attributable to a cat’s behavior or intercession.
In use: “With floofus interruptus (a cat on the lap trying to rub against his hands), the planned typing required one hour vice ten minutes.”