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Mar. 17th, 2005 11:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stakebaitMom of Mer is home from hospital, and I am home from Mom of Mer's -- though only till tomorrow, when I go back for the weekend. She is fine. (For someone who had surgery a week ago. There will be no steeplechasing, ribbon dancing, or wanton picking up of dropped things for the forseeable future.) I am fine too.
The plan is for me to spend weekends there for the next two months, doing groceries and laundry and shopping for odd bits of archaic underthings to hold her incision together, so if I'm not around, that's why.
I am missing Lunacon this weekend, which will probably make me sad afterwards, but is just as well, as this is not the Social Mer. This is the Mer whose idea of a racy St. Patrick's Day is to put some chocolate in my milk. I don't mind in the least having a quiet evening of cat and book in my own apartment, but I hate to be sedate at what should be a party. It makes me feel old.
Rejection from Feral Fiction, though a very encouraging one. How I wish it was good professional etiquette to reply to someone who says "this is not for us" with "why not?" By which I don't mind "change your mind" or "how dare you" but "I really want to know, why not?" It would help a lot with the figuring out what to send them next time.
Oh, well. Negligible word count, but I did write another poem.
The altogether-too-late-for-the-anthology Red States/Blue States plot bunny continues to churn in my brain. Though actually plot is the one thing I don't have -- all I've got is an increasingly fleshed out setting, a protagonist, and the first two lines. What *is* that, a Setting Ferret? Sooner or later I must corner an SCA person, a military person, and a Pittsburgh native for brain picking for that one, but it need not be now.
Am very tired, which feels altogether too comfortably familiar. Am also in that slightly nerve-exposed state where random phrases strike me with stunning force, leading me to get briefly weepy in the work restroom from reading a Phantom retelling, or stand transfixed by an ad on a payphone. Fear my unflappable composure, it takes an empty plastic bag caught on a tree branch to shake me. (It's not a *bad* mood, if that wasn't clear. It's even pleasurable, in an unsettling way. Just intense, like the muffling is off the world and every touch shudders to the bone.)
The plan is for me to spend weekends there for the next two months, doing groceries and laundry and shopping for odd bits of archaic underthings to hold her incision together, so if I'm not around, that's why.
I am missing Lunacon this weekend, which will probably make me sad afterwards, but is just as well, as this is not the Social Mer. This is the Mer whose idea of a racy St. Patrick's Day is to put some chocolate in my milk. I don't mind in the least having a quiet evening of cat and book in my own apartment, but I hate to be sedate at what should be a party. It makes me feel old.
Rejection from Feral Fiction, though a very encouraging one. How I wish it was good professional etiquette to reply to someone who says "this is not for us" with "why not?" By which I don't mind "change your mind" or "how dare you" but "I really want to know, why not?" It would help a lot with the figuring out what to send them next time.
Oh, well. Negligible word count, but I did write another poem.
The altogether-too-late-for-the-anthology Red States/Blue States plot bunny continues to churn in my brain. Though actually plot is the one thing I don't have -- all I've got is an increasingly fleshed out setting, a protagonist, and the first two lines. What *is* that, a Setting Ferret? Sooner or later I must corner an SCA person, a military person, and a Pittsburgh native for brain picking for that one, but it need not be now.
Am very tired, which feels altogether too comfortably familiar. Am also in that slightly nerve-exposed state where random phrases strike me with stunning force, leading me to get briefly weepy in the work restroom from reading a Phantom retelling, or stand transfixed by an ad on a payphone. Fear my unflappable composure, it takes an empty plastic bag caught on a tree branch to shake me. (It's not a *bad* mood, if that wasn't clear. It's even pleasurable, in an unsettling way. Just intense, like the muffling is off the world and every touch shudders to the bone.)
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Date: 2005-03-17 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-18 01:42 am (UTC)