The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance. (Aristotle)

I wrote a scene, a couple scenes, today that I really didn’t want to write. I get so emotionally invested in the scenes, from all the characters’ perspectives, that it’s painful to put them, especially Taylor, through things. And I begin to wonder if there isn’t something wrong with me for imagining these horrible circumstances. But I feel better when it’s over having had confronted the demons and lived through it. Does that make sense to any writers out there?

So I’m listening to "Linus and Lucy" and a Loreena McKennitt Christmas album, trying to shake off the place I have to take myself in my head to write this way. And I hate, I mean HATE, Christmas music, but it’s a tip and I tried it, and it works. Not all songs, just some, they take me to a better frame of mind somehow, oddly enough “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” “Good King Wencesalas,” and “Dickens’ Dublin” work best. Go figure. Of course, Loreena McKennitt can make the worst songs work. Just love her voice and style, so surreal, like a cross between a pre-Raphaelite painting and a Beltane fire. Love it.

Other than that, we’re wringing wet here, but not nearly as bad as other parts of the country. I can’t weed my garden (rats!) until it dries out a little. I might sink to China. I cringe thinking of how bad the cows are tearing up the pasture. Oh well, not anything I can do about it. Fight the battles I can win. Somehow I don’t think the cows are going to give a tinker’s damn if I go over and ask them (politely) not to tear in too bad.

Finished Every Which Way But Dead by Kim Harrison today. Really good series. It’s neat to see how many twists writers can put on vampires. I don’t even really like vampires, like I never got into Anne Rice at all, but I like the way certain writers tell stories and so I read vampire novels. Still plugging away at Pamela, who doesn’t show any signs of getting less whiney. I’m almost rooting for the boss to seduce her, just so she’ll quit being so worried about her damn virtue. Almost.

Kitchen Logic

Put in a good day writing today. Got 3.5 pages for Taylor and a few pages for sketching out a new query letter and synopsis. Then I started brain storming on new ideas for the first book and how to tie it into shit I’m working on in the short novel… it all goes on. Needless to day, Zippy has been extremely bored today. But, he did great this morning when we had to move bulls and horses. Unfortunately, no one sees him work that well except me. I mean, he did perfect responding to me and with reading the situation. I can’t brag on my baby boy enough. (Maybe Gram is right; I do treat him better than any boyfriend.)

I know I said I’d have a newsletter coming, but since I don’t have it yet, I’ve decided just to post a poem, flash fiction piece, or something here on the blog. It’s not much, but the writing is why I’m here in the first place. It just takes days like this for me to realize it. So, here’s a piece that everyone has liked so far:

“Kitchen Logic”
There ain’t gonna be no conversation.
‘Cause you don’t even know I’m mad.
Not yellin mad, not screamin mad.
Simmering mad:
where I throw up my hands…
then throw in the laundry.
Sautee mad:
where I cook until my feet bleed.
Roasting mad:
until the half-beef in one freezer
transforms into soups, stews, casseroles
And is in the other freezer.
Basting mad.
Baking mad.
(Not eating mad, are you kidding? I’d get so fat!)
But cooking mad:
At least until I can spice it all away.
But you, you fucked up, buddy.
Step up or step out.
I said out.
You aint gettin’ fed.

It was a dark and stormy night... (worst first line ever!)

We’ve had terrific storms the last few days. Tornado watches, thunderstorms, etc. At least we got some moisture. Our hay really needed it. Maybe I can get in the garden without sinking to China in a day or two. Hopefully my potatoes decide to sprout after all this heat and moisture. The tornado that hit Sunfield traveled right down the north-west corner of our property. It seems the winds were going northeast so it knocked down a black walnut tree at our other house and twisted our barn door from facing the west to facing the east (and the inside of the barn). That’s going to be a job!

I’m listening to the Tao te Ching guy, Wayne Dyer, on PBS today. I’ve seen the program before, but I really like listening to the guy talk. He makes some really good points. I haven’t read the Tao yet, but it’s on my reading list, the Stephen Mitchell version I think. Not too crazy about the chick that sings at the end of the program, but that’s just my opinion. And as someone I used to know says, “opinions are like assholes; everybody has one.” I do subscribe to the idea that a person’s thoughts can change their life. I’ve watched it for years. People who believe they are old, get old fast. People who see the glass as half-empty, get half a glass of milk when they asked for a full one. Then they bitch about getting what they asked for instead of what they really wanted. I didn’t get all the way through The Secret by Rhonda Byrne, but her idea that the ideas, the wants you send out into the universe, as those that come back. Ask for what you want, not what you are afraid of. For example, if you ask the universe not to send you bad luck, the universe won’t hear that. If you focus on the bad and how much you don’t want the bad, the universe will send you what you are thinking about. If you focus on the good, you’ll get that.

Books and Humidity

The sunset was spectacular tonight, especially after the thunderstorms we had. But the heat finally broke with the storm, thank gods. I was red-faced and wilting all day in the humidity. Gee, can we say non-drought tolerant? Kidding. But I am overjoyed for the cooler and less humid sleeping conditions tonight, even if tomorrow will be just as bad. As long as the nights cool down and there’s air moving, I stay pretty happy.

I finished The Hunchback of Notre-Dame today. Once you get past the diatribes of architecture, the novel is pretty good. Romantic almost to a fault, but the ending is great. I don’t feel deprived or anything having not watched the Disney version first. But Esmeralda is kind of an airhead over Phoebus, who doesn’t deserve the love from such a lovely girl, lovely in body and spirit. Strangely (which was probably what Hugo was going for), the only character whose soul matches the beauty of Esmeralda’s own is Quasimodo’s. So it makes him that much more tragic. (Yeah, I know. Five years of college and that’s my initial analysis. Oh well. I was a reader before I was an English major and will be a reader long after.)

So I started Pamela by Samuel Richardson and gave up on the Tao of Horses, trading it for Storey’s Guide to Training Horses and The Mammoth Book of International Erotica. I’m also rereading The Nick Adams Stories by Hemingway and still plugging away at the Bhagavad Gita. I feel a text like that deserves some consideration instead of an avid cover-to-cover read. And if that’s not enough books for ya, I finished Laurell K. Hamilton’s A Caress of Twilight yesterday and started Kim Harrison’s Every Which Way but Dead today. Hey, gotta supplement those classics with some brain candy. I get my 25 pages of Richardson in and a hundred pages in Harrison. Seems fair to me.

Yesterday I was a dog. Today I'm a dog. Tomorrow I'll probably still be a dog. Sigh! There's so little hope for advancement. (Charles M. Schulz)

Am I a bad LKH fan if I admit we didn’t stay for the signing? We got there early and all ready a crowd gathered in the back of the store. Standing room only for the most part. (I have jeans like that too, but that’s a side issue.) But the talk was great and a lot of fun and if we had been less than two hours from home (four hours for Dana) we probably would have done the whole hang out and sign books deal.

It rained yesterday. YEY! My hay needed it badly. And my garden is saying thankyouthankyouthankyou! I’m actually surprised not more of my garden has died yet. I’m not the most, er, green-thumbed amongst humans and can kill cactuses with a dirty look (and not enough water). So the fact that I have baby peas and lettuces coming up just tickles me to death.

Driving to Toledo again today to pick up Gram. I’m so not looking forward to five o’clock traffic around Ann Arbor, or on Sylvania (don’t think I spelled that right) Street. Oh well. It’s for Gram. I can suck it up.

I only got two pages for Taylor yesterday. Sad. And one page was major emotional/action plot points. One of those if X happens, then Y needs to happen, but W needs to occur to set up for X… yeah kinda like that. But it helps me with foreshadowing and things like that, a way of setting up this to fall here. Hopefully none of these people change their minds. I got to find out some new stuff about Jaime though, so that was cool. Where Tay is a sledge hammer, Jaime is a whisper of silk across the skin. Where Bryen is earth, Jaime is moonlit water. He is smooth and sultry where they are heavy and fall like a five pound sack of shit. Maybe not the most poetic reference, but an accurate one. So, we’ll see where the writing takes me today, what with Tay’s headaches and Ana’s gentle persuading (the last was sarcasm, just so ya know).

“Compassionate Stupidity”

Dana and I are going to Laurell K. Hamilton’s book signing today. It’s the first book signing I’ve ever gone to, so I’m pretty excited. Not to mention that it’s for one of my favorite authors.

I got four pages yesterday. YEY! Taylor and I have been at odds over the second book. Well, technically it’s a short story so far, only 18,000 words. Originally, the second book began with a death, but I wanted Tay and this character to have some more time together on-screen, so I created this situation for them and, well, the third book crept in, but not all of it, so, yeah, things are a fucking mess now. But it’s been getting better. Except for the fact that Tay and Bryen fight all the time, which was not what I had in mind when I brought Bryen into the story. I thought he’d settle her down, but he’s really good at sticking his boot between his teeth.

Okay, that coffee can still take the skin off your tongue. Let that cool a little bit.

Dad and I had an interesting conversation about compassion last night and the stupidity that often accompanies it. It’s a universal understanding that my father is far more compassionate than I will ever be, through necessity I might add, not by choice, and that goes for both of us. But when does compassion, and the desire to help those you care about, whether they deserve it or not, become a liability, when does it become stupidity, instead of an advantage? I sure as hell don’t have the answer. But all in all we had a good talk and we got from being spun by troubles of our own makings to utilizing a little common sense. Let's hear it for compassionate stupidity!

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. (James A. Baldwin)

Ohhhhhh, Monday, Monday, Monday. Its one o’clock, my dog stinks like shit, and I’m just getting to my desk. I hear a lot of professional writers talk about scheduling and making time to write, like the same time everyday, preferably in the morning. Not to be rude or anything, but I’d like to know how many of these people are farmers. This morning I got up, ate, did laundry, went to the farm, weeded the garden, mowed Gram’s acre of lawn while getting bombarded by dog-pecker gnats, charged the cattle backrubbers with highly toxic chemicals while flies and gnats attempted to fly into any orifice I had exposed and several I did not (while the ram tried to either head butt me or fuck me, I’m not sure which and no, I’m not in heat), came home, showered to get the shit off me, worked out, cleaned up again, finished the laundry, just ate lunch at my desk and can finally get around to writing my scene instead of just thinking about it.

And so far, this week looks like today and sometime after Thursday are the only days I’ll have any time during the day to write. Unless I make time at night. Which puts me to bed around midnight, up again around six or seven… and I’m definitely not one of those people who prides themselves on how little sleep they can function on. Been there, done that. That life is so over (thank god!) So the challenge remains for me, as for many writers, how to make time for writing when doing two jobs. Believe me, I can go into great detail about why I can’t, but I prefer to focus on what I can.

On a completely different note, I still can’t eat orange sherbet. Why? You ask. I’ll tell you. My dad’s long-time, live-in girlfriend used to freeze things in old containers. Especially plastic ice cream containers. One night, I came home, went to the freezer, and took out a container of orange sherbet. At the time, I did not know of her penchant for freezing things in old containers. And, in the dark, I set to eating sherbet straight out of the carton, as I was the only one in the house who ate ice cream (just to clarify for anyone out there who would say that I learned my lesson). Upon placing the expected orange delight on my tongue, I found, to my shock and dismay, that it was not orange sherbet, but in fact frozen nacho cheese dip. I spat it into the sink, drank water with my head beneath the faucet, and generally acted like my friend Brad when Gary… well, that’s a whole other story and not for the faint of heart or the easily disgusted. So I’ll leave that one till later and leave it at the fact that I can no longer eat orange sherbet. But this raspberry sure tastes great! :-)