About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after. (Ernest Hemingway)

It’s a beautiful, cool, unhumid (I know, that ain’t even a word, but humor me) day outside and I’m holed up working on the writing. I slacked yesterday, mowed the two yards instead (I think we might just lease our lawn to square bale, joke). So today it’s back to the computer and hanging out by myself with my pretend friends. (That still sounds nuts, too bad it’s true.)

I’m trying to get short stories, poems, and the like together to start pitching to magazines. It takes awhile, as most writers know, to wade through the guidelines and magazine profiles, then read the magazine, make sure that your writing is up their alley, etc. And all the while try to keep up with the latest writing projects, cussing out the characters as badly as they cuss you when you have to turn your attention to business concerns instead of theirs.

Or maybe that’s just me. :-)

We haven’t got our mower conditioner fixed yet, but the neighbor offered to take down the remaining hay we had standing and square bale it. We needed some squares for calving this September and what not, so we let him take what he needed and give us a cut when we figure out how many bales will come out of the field. At least it gives us more time to get the mower fixed before second cutting. Dad’s been crazy-busy down at his latest job. He and the homeowner seem to want to finish things up as fast as they can, so hay is coming in second priority lately. Just wish I had more machinery savvy so I could fix this shit myself.

I’m into the fine tuning with Taylor. I’m going to go back today and add some things to what we’ve already covered, fine details and stuff. I think another few sessions and we’ll have the read-through done. Really looking forward to that. I love the work, but honestly I’m ready for some space without the red book in it.

It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else. (Erma Bombeck)

I’m getting a lot done today for still being in my jammies at 3:30 in the afternoon. Got the kitchen all clean, the dishes done, the laundry rolling, twenty-seven pages of the book read through and edited, it’s a good day. Just need to come up with something amazing and astounding for supper tonight, exercise, and work in the garden and it will be quite the day. I even made pages on things completely unrelated to Taylor today. Yey!

I gave up on Pamela yesterday. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I left the bookmark in so if in another year or two I feel like coming back to it, I can. The suspense isn’t exactly killing me. So I started Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass instead. Gotta love a rabbit in a waistcoat. I’m still reading the Nick Adams Stories too, along with Strange Candy by LKH. No wonder I’m starting to make short stories. There’s just less to be bound up to with a short story than with a novel. And while I like the emotional depth in a novel, sometimes a short story, poem, or even flash fic can just soothe the itch for telling a story or writing the way a novel sometimes can’t.

I feel so lazy being boarded up in room while it’s a beautiful, if hot and humid, summer day outside. I’d love to be outside, working on fence, doing the farm thing, but I burn really easy and refuse to use sunscreen. So actually, my skin should thank me for having an alternative, indoor occupation. Otherwise I’d look like a lobster all the time. I know I should use some kind of skin protection. But it makes me break out or itch or other weird skin reactions that are permanent striations rather than a temporary burn. Which one do you think I go with? I’ve worn long sleeves or t-shirts more this summer than I normally do, but so far it’s working well to do most outdoor stuff in the afternoons and evenings and staying in during the classic 11-3 pm times. So far. We’ll see.

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face."

"You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'" (Eleanor Roosevelt)

Got a lot done on the book yesterday before Dana went back north. I feel a lot better about things. When the writing goes well, my whole life goes well. When it doesn’t go well, the gods help those around me and make sure they thank those gods no one else is in my head but me. I’m not a girl prone to PMS, which is good since Moody Writer Syndrome is along similar lines. Throw in some stupid boys and a broken mower conditioner and the family starts throwing beers and chocolate at me, from a distance of course.

It’s a lazy kind of Friday for me. Been gone or runnin’ all week, including last night. I just got home a little bit ago, so which direction to go is a little vague. I might start a new project today, just as a distraction from Taylor, but I’m not sure. So instead of sticking my foot in my mouth and talking about the project, I’m just gonna do what I do.

Just took a break and did more of the major read-aloud of the red book on the phone with Dana. It’s going a lot slower than I thought it would and takes more out of me than I can believe. Just have to focus so hard and have so many other things to keep in mind and work with… hard to explain. But thirty minute segments seem to work well.

Oh, I forgot to mention that we got our mower conditioner’s problems figured out. Where the cutter bar comes in and connects to the gear box, the pin that drives the cutter bar kept catching on the guard just right. Last I knew, Dad bent the guard back down, but has to replace it, if he can get it off the mower. We’ll see how that goes. But the weather has hardly been conducive lately to haying. So it was a good week to be a writer rather than a farmer. Overall, once I finish Pamela, life is good.

Happiness is a direction, not a place. (Sydney J. Harris)

Who? Oh well. Good thought for the day at least.

Well, for those who are interested, you can find me at www.myspace.com/barclayfarms.

Yesterday we finally got hours in on the major overhaul for book one, right now called the red book for the sake of simplicity. Numbers and I don’t get along so one, two, three weren’t working for me. Colors are much more up my alley. Unfortunately for those among us who are color-blind. My grandpa never could tell if he had blue, brown, or black socks. Anyway, the overhauls are going well so far and today we’ll get into the meat of it. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a verbal person, but for some reason, even when I wrote college papers, it works better when the words can percolate through my brain and out of my mouth. Things just make more sense and become more solid for me. And the characters don’t mind. I think they all have vanity issues because they all seem inordinately pleased with themselves for having us holed up talking about them. Smug bastards.

I’m going to keep this entry brief so I can get to work on more important things. But I’ll leave y’all with a poem.

The Haying Song
Rain rain go away
quit raining on my fucking hay.

Five years of college education in Central’s creative writing program and that’s the best I got. Pathetic I know. But it’s still funny.

Home again, flyin' again

Back home this afternoon, but only until Dana gets here and we can go off and work on the book. Finally, yey! I’ve got pages upon pages of notes and problems and since I’m a verbal learner, it works best for me to sort through issues out loud. And there are some issues to work through. Hopefully we can get it all wrangled in a marathon session between tonight and tomorrow.

Strange weather lately. Nice one day and raining and cool the next. Makes it difficult to get hay up. We got all ours up last week. 107 bales. We can load three wagons at a time, about 9,000 pounds apiece, so 27,000 pounds total. The B can haul it across country, but the hills (excuse me, hill – singular) in the back proved a bit much for the old man. I’m not sure why that tractor is male, but it is. Or at least, it’s a man’s tractor. Oh well, the dogs are women’s dogs so it’s even. (Sorry, inside joke).

Well, I better go get my shit around to meet with Dana. Meanwhile, I’m gonna jam out to Willa Ford’s “A Toast To Men” and other angry girl music. Let’s just say it’s onea those days. >-( Oh, and I broke down and created a myspace. Just FYI. We’ll see how that goes. Happy days.

Ah! the memories!

Up north writing at my friends’ kitchen table again. It’s a little ironic since this is where I used to do my homework when I stayed here during middle school. Talk about weird flashbacks. I keep thinking I’m not old enough to be writing or reading what I am and need to floss my braces. Does anyone actually miss middle school? Certainly not me. I haven’t even gotten nostalgic about freshman year of college. (Which sucked, by the way.)

I’m working on query letters today. And I finally learned to spell ‘query.’ Two r’s right? Kidding. Hopefully Dana and I can get to work finishing the first book so my block can smooth out. I still think block is all in the writer’s mind, but I’m trying to keep the momentum of one project up so the momentum on the others goes to shit, for lack of a better term.

I’ve been reading Contemporary American Poetry this morning. It’s a college book that we only read a few poems in so I thought I’d give it a read now that I don’t have to. Makes sense, right? Yeah not really, I know. Still wading my way through Pamela. I skimmed the last twenty-five pages and didn’t miss a thing. Just a note: Please don’t base anything on my recommendation of Pamela. It’s a good book, just not blowing my skirt up, as my ol’ ma used to say. I think it’s among the first books considered as modern novels. That’s why I started to read the book in the first place. English major interest and all. But just because I turn into a narcoleptic every time I open the book, doesn’t mean that it’s a book to miss. It’s just literature to read in bed so no one has a traffic accident because the driver nodded off while the passenger reads Pamela. (Hey, Dad fell asleep while I read Pamela. It could happen.)

Happy Days.

P.S.

The freelance farmer also must not mind dirt, grit, grease, manure, sunburns, insect bites, a sore throat from fumes and pollen, and dehydration resulting in mild hallucinations.

I can see this list is going to become an ad in progress.