Meet Truman

In an update on Coffeegate 2012, say hello to Truman Bubbles:

Sarge set him up with a celebratory marshmallow.

As you can see from the photo, Truman comes with a very safe, very wireless keyboard.

(The marshmallow was consumed very soon after this photo was taken.  I was worried about sugar-damage.  ’Have you learned nothing?’ I said to Sarge.

Regular blogging will resume tomorrow.  Right now, I must type up the pages of my handwritten Nano novel .

The name is in honour of Truman Capote.  The middle name suggested by Madame Weebles.

Please make Truman feel welcome, he’s a little shy.  I’m sure he’ll get over it.

Please Stay Tuned

Some of you may remember Coffeegate 2011.  Well, it’s become an annual event.  Earlier this week, I picked up my coffee with my left hand.  And promptly dropped it.  On my computer.  Again.  Maybe it was the weight of my engagement ring.  Or maybe it’s because I am seriously not left-handed.  At all.  Ever.

Anyway, the screen went black and coffee seeped between the keys before I could switch it off and flip it upside down.  I know what to do.  I’m a pro.  Obviously not.

I even tried to pull the battery out.  But it was stuck.  Probably held there by the left-over sugar from last time.  It was then I realised we’d run out of paper-towels, and so I had to use a touristy dish-towel.  It was decidedly non-absorbent and had a touristy poem on it.  Fail.

I then texted Sarge.  Not because I needed help.  But because he needed to know that his future wife is a moron.  He didn’t get the message.  I heard his phone go off in the bedroom.  He was at work.  Maybe he’s a moron sometimes, too.  We’re good for each other.

I updated Facebook on my phone, babbling about how much I need my own working laptop at the moment.  Because I do.  NaNoWriMo is coming up, the OU is online.  And then there’s the job-hunt.  Did I mention I was working on an application when The Dump happened?  I was.

Hemingway is drying out.  Again.   He’s still isn’t speaking to me.  I don’t blame him.  I haven’t been very good to him.  And now I’m going to replace him.

I’ve told Sarge I’m too embarrassed to take Hem anywhere to get fixed.  Again.  Especially not Sarge’s parents’ house.  No one else needs to know I’m a moron.  But now all of you do.  So, hi.

I’m writing this on Sarge’s laptop.  Which does not have a name.  I’m trying not to spend too much time on here.  I feel like a guest.

I’ve managed to read ahead in my counselling course-book and I’ve finished a few library books.  I submitted the application I was working on when The Dump happened.  Offline life is good.  More on that later.

Sarge is going to rescue everything on my hard-drive.  Tomorrow I’m going to smile sweetly and hope the gadget gods honour my insurance.  And I’d like one of these for Christmas.

What should I name the next computer?  I have an idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.

I hope to have the new one up and running soon.  Until then, stay tuned and talk amongst yourselves.  The bar is still open.

On my Christmas list!

Open To Interpretation

What follows could either be a. a snippet from my NaNo novel or, 2.  a recent conversation between Sarge and me:

I need to write.

Then write.

How do I get out of the way?

Write in the bathroom, on the toilet, in the tub. Write in bare feet, using a pencil with no eraser. Stick your head out the window, shut your eyes and breathe. And don’t take breaks to talk to your mother about goat wool.

That wasn’t my fault. She called me.

Whatever.

And it’s rabbit wool.

What?

Angora. It’s rabbit wool. Not goat wool.

Who gives a shit?  Just write.

This is not a goat. Image via Wikipedia

A Little Friendly Competition

And so, I’m ‘doing’ NaNoWriMo this year. We have always had a strange relationship. Past attempts have seen me bang out 20,000 words and then well, edit them. Note to self and others: Don’t. Do. That. I have a penchant for abandoning projects in favour of others which I think ‘sound better’, and I don’t finish anything. Except really short stories or ‘novel excerpts’. Novel excerpts are short stories that wouldn’t shut up.

See, I don’t like writing that sounds like writing. The minute I’m aware of words on the page, I stop and write another scene playing out in my head. I have a lot of computer files and notebooks and thoughts. Most are non-sequential. Really. Try having a conversation with me.

This year, I promised myself, and Sarge, and my Dad that I would see one single novel to the end of its first draft. Because everyone is fed up with the frustrated writer. I’d just love to be a writer.

First, I said I’d hit 2k a day. Not so much. Then, because my brain goes faster than my typing speed, I thought I’d dictate the thing. Not so much. Last week, I just parked it and started typing. And the phone rang.

It was my Dad. And this was the conversation:

Dad: You may be interested to know I am writing a novel. (That’s how my Dad speaks. I kinda love it.)

Me: Really? Cool!

(He tells me about his novel…)

Me: Really? Cool! (Inside: Aw, shit. Really? For real, really? I know we’re psychically linked, but this is like, ridiculous…this whole line of thought took 5 seconds. I told you my brain works fast.) Well, Daddy, you’re not gonna believe this, but…(I share my plot.)

Dad: Oh. Well. Every book is different. Good luck! (I’m paraphrasing. Or something.)

I couldn’t write any more that afternoon. Because my mother called.

And when Sarge arrived home I was writing in actual notebook.

I told him about the conversations with my parents. And then the plot of my book.

‘Oh. That’s basically your Dad’s book. But not.’

‘This is what I’m saying,’ I said

‘Well. Every book is different.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Would you be upset if your Dad finished his book before you finished yours?’

‘No, I’d be happy. Having said that, shut your pretty mouth.’

What I have now is a book that sits at 5,861 words. I also have a supportive boyfriend who keeps plying me with gingerbread lattes, new notebooks and other things. And a father who is writing a book, which may or may not compliment my own. The only way to find out is to finish it.

A note to my Dad, and anyone else who may be writing a book: Please don’t stop. And I won’t, either. Back to it.

Back before the Word Wars...

100 Books or Bust: Heading For 50

Well.

Dead Until Dark was the 45th book I’ve read this year.  Not my usual thing, but my brain was buzzing and needed down-time.  I had fun reading some choice lines aloud to Sarge, and finished it in a few hours.

Here’s a list of all the books I’ve read so far this year.  If I finish all the books I’ve got going, I’ll break 50 soon.  However.  I probably won’t make it to 100 books read this year.  I could read a book a day from now until the end of the year, but I won’t.  I’m not giving up, just ‘managing exceptions’.  Maybe my own.

I have a book to write, and a job to go to and adventures to have.  I’ll bring a book everywhere.  Maybe I’ll get to add 55 more titles to my 2011 list.  Maybe not.  But I’ve still read more than last year, and I’ve had fun.  There’s always next year.  And tomorrow.

What are you reading these days?

A bookshelf in my hallway

29 Stories

And so, my current NaNo effort has turned bleak and predictable.  Even if I do say so myself.

There is a Plan B, and I like it.  Remember when I said I had trouble finishing things?  (NaNo is a perfect example.  However, moving on.)

I am going to write one short story a day until the end of November.  And they will all have endings, I tell you.

If the word-count of my collective stories reaches 50K, I will consider it a NaNo victory.  If it doesn’t, it will be a personal victory.

I’ll be writing from prompts I find here, there, everywhere and on my bookshelf.

While I won’t post the full story, I may post excerpts and I will post the prompts I’m using. You may want to play along. I hope you do.

So, who’s with me?

Oh, and story light-bulb 1 is:  Dinner party

Use that however you wish.

The small print: I first thought of 29 Stories when there were still 29 days in the month.  I’m going to keep that number because it matches my age.  I may double up to write 29 stories.  I may not.  Either way, they will be stories written by me, at the age of 29.  You do not have to be 29 to play along.  I’m now going to stop typing ‘29’. No purchase necessary.

This one’s bleak as hell…

The printer ran out of paper today.  I printed out two stories I’ve written in order to conduct an experiment.  I asked Sarge to read both, and whichever one he wanted to read more of would become my NaNoWriMo novel this year.

He finished both, held one up and said: This one’s bleak as hell.  While I think that ‘bleak’ has its place, I don’t want to sit with bleak for a month.  Because I’m not feeling it.  And so, I’m flying with the other one.

In the spirit of things, my weekend played out like a NaNo dare.

It included:

A broken filling (yes, one of the ones from the sadistic dentist)

An anniversary

A bonfire

A curry on the floor

You can use  those, if you wish.  All stories are different.

The Queen of the Cliff-hangers

I have a confession to make.  I hear voices in my head.  The voices of characters who don’t know where they’re going because I haven’t finished their stories on the page.  I’m responsible for the identity crises of thousands.  I get several fake shrink bills in the mail every week.  One girl in particular has been stuck in the bathroom for about four months.  She’s angry.  She was other places to go.  Trust me, we’ve had words.

My problem (?) is that my brain is faster than my typing fingers, my writing hands, and even my speaking mouth.  I see the whole thing in my head, and it’s finished there before it’s finished on paper/screen.   And then I get bored.  Move on to a story with louder, more urgent/annoying characters.  That has left me with more unfinished stories, indeed novels, than I care to admit to.  The novels originated from stories that wouldn’t end.  They still haven’t.  Some people just don’t shut up.

I used to write out of sequence, and that ended in more words.  Which is good, but they still make sense only to me and very few of those words are ‘The End’.  Sometimes, there is very little progress in the Work in Progress.  Especially when there are several works not progressing.  I’m not fickle.  I prefer the term Queen of the Cliff-hangers.  Maybe I should let the characters mingle and cross story-lines.  I’m sure they’d have a lot in common.

Contrary to popular belief, I do finish things.  I have to sit down (that’s easy) and write the whole thing in one go with no breaks or Time To Think.  The biscuits and Doritos have to be on my desk, because I sure as hell can’t leave the room to get them.  If I did, I’d get sidelined by Judge Judy, or something longer, like Summer.

I went off in search of a new notebook today.  Didn’t have to go very far.  I have lots of notebooks in the house.  I wanted one with no half-baked ideas, unsullied by old times and procrastination.  Couldn’t find one.  That says something.  It says I must open my Novels and Tidbits file on my computer, and finish something old.  Hopefully before NaNoWriMo, when the idea is to start (and finish!) something new.

The first thing I’m going to do is let that poor girl out of the bathroom.