a fool's musings

Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write...

Warning: Adult Content achromatic unfinished fic graveyard recs journal new stuff recent stuff my back pages January 2004 December 2003 November 2003 October 2003 September 2003 August 2003 July 2003 June 2003 May 2003 April 2003 March 2003 February 2003 January 2003 December 2002 November 2002 October 2002 September 2002 August 2002 July 2002 June 2002 May 2002 April 2002 March 2002 February 2002 January 2002 December 2001 November 2001 the five Ws, or, all about me profile e-mail victoria my livejournal the original P&R comments current mood: "pathological and unbalanced" Items of Interest People LiveJournal folks Baraita bishclone claritylit Jintian Kat Allison Kit Mason metablog mix-tapes Neil Gaiman Nestra Sarah T. Seema Shrift Sundry Mourning zendom Music Walk On - U2 Thunder Road - Bruce Springsteen If I Can't Change Your Mind - Sugar Sick of Myself - Matthew Sweet Town Called Malice - The Jam One - U2 The Space Between - DMB Books Lord of the Rings Catch-22 The Neely Trilogy Absalom! Absalom! Possession: A Romance Foucault's Pendulum Dreamhouse LA Confidential I Capture the Castle Sandman Waking the Moon Shows Angel Buffy the Vampire Slayer (in reruns) Alias West Wing The Simpsons webrings < ? fanfiction ! > < ? writers ! > diaryreviews.diaryland.com NYC Bloggers Comments by Haloscan.com all links, if I haven't screwed up somehow, should open in a new browser window

2001-12-18 - 4:30 p.m. email troubles Grrr... I can't get into my email and it's driving me insane. I sent a message for help to tech support, but you just KNOW they're going to EMAIL me the answer. Dumbasses. ~vic [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-18 - 12:59 p.m. social dwarf I keep wondering if there's something wrong with me. Maybe my brain is just wired weird. How is it that other people make banal small talk with seemingly no effort at all, and yet it takes every ounce of my considerable brain power to participate in a conversation with a co-worker who's just returned to work after major surgery? I mean, it should be fairly obvious - "How are you? Good to see you back." etc. And I managed it this time, so maybe I'm finally learning, but sometimes it doesn't come to me until hours later that I should have said something. Like when someone inquires abuot my weekend, I've been known to actually *tell* them about it instead of just saying "Fine, thanks. And yours?" Which I believe is the "correct," "polite" response. I have a very hard time feigning interest in things that are not of interest to me. I've never learned the social niceties of not appearing bored out of my mind. I don't think I ever will. I zone out completely and then can't respond, so I look like an idiot. I nod and smile a lot. Hey, it worked with Grandma and Aunt Jean, and they didn't even speak English at the end, or make much sense at the end, really. Hmm... could my social skills finally be improving at the ripe old age of 31? ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-17 - 10:18 p.m. on awards In my usual way of over-analyzing every single thing that happens, I've been thinking *a lot* about this whole awards thing, not only because it came up on glass_onion, but because of the possibility of xmmff awards. On the one hand [and watch out, I'm going to need three or four hands for this argument. Call me Kali], I think it's great. Writers deserve recognition. It feeds the ego and soothes the anxieties and, I'd hope, makes insecure authors [and is there such a thing as a secure author?] more secure in their abilities. On the other hand, I do worry, especially in this fandom, that things would get ugly. And I don't want to see that. Because it wouldn't be a full-on confrontation, which would at least clear the air, draw the lines and so on; it would be more petty bickering and backbiting and stupidity and I hate that. I left high school a long time ago. I don't want to go back. On the third hand [see, I told you], I have an innate dislike of judging artistic things against each other. Even with categories and separating novels from short stories from vignettes etc., I think it can be a fruitless exercise. Because of course, not everyone is going to agree on what a good or great story is, even if some baseline standard for technical merit is established. And really, how important is technical stuff if a story is truly moving? And we come to the crux of the matter, or the fourth hand. *g* I think, deep down, my dislike of awards is because I know I won't win. I don't play if I can't win, let alone even have a chance to do so. It's something I've never really thought about or articulated, and now that I have, I don't particularly like it about myself, but there it is. I never thought I had a competitive streak, but I guess that's because I only get into competitions where I know I'll win. And this would *so* not be one of them. If you grouped L/R writers on a graph [I *told* you I'd thought about this way more than was healthy today], with the X axis being technical merit and the Y axis being emotional connection, you'd see the best writers would score high on both. That's where your Diebins and Donnas and Mollys and Jenns would be. You'd have a group that scored high on emotional connection and only in the middle on technical merit. Terri would fall in here, probably, depending on who was scoring and how they felt about some of her writing quirks [the speech patterns in the narrative, etc.]. Darkstar also, because her writing is visceral and her style is distinct, but still needs some guidance. You'd have a group - and this is where I fall - that would score well on technical merit and fall short in emotional connection. And then you'd have everyone else. Groups 1 and 2 would [and should] win awards. With me being in the "writes well but doesn't have that emotionally memorably quality," I would most likely not win. And I should be okay with that. Because, after all, I know my strengths and flaws and I know that there is an authorial distance in most of my writing that is possibly a hindrance to making that emotional connection. I'm not sure. But see, the whole "likes to win" thing... I would never publicly take my bat and ball and go home, to mix metaphors, but inside I'd be simmering about it, and frustrated, and poor Jen, Meg, Dot and Pete would have to listen to me bitch and moan. It's an ugly little side of myself I haven't looked at since I got out of school, really. I was a grades junkie, a grind of the worst sort, because I didn't have to work hard to do well, and if I didn't do well, then I would just work a little and do better. And I hated people who got better grades than I did. So, while I can get behind awards in principle - especially that whole thing about doing it by feedback [though it sounds like a nightmare to tally], because who DOESN'T want more feedback? - on the personal level, I hate and fear them. Well, hate and fear might be too strong, but I dislike anything that exposes my flaws for everyone else to see - hell, I don't even like looking at them myself - and this seems [with no ill intent on anyone's part - I know that - but my whole world revolves around me, remember] like it would leave me feeling bitter about myself. Because while my ego is saying, "Hey, you could win for Best Laid Plans or Soiled Dove or something," my gut is saying, "You know you can't match up, so don't even try." This is why I need a walkman, so I don't have to think like this on the ride home. ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-17 - 10:30 a.m. purple prose? So here's another Consumption excerpt - unbeta'd and unseen by any but you, gentle reader. *g* I'm still working out the fight scene that leads up to this, but I wanted to do a little more with the Logan-saves-Rogue than the movie did, so I wrote this. It might be a little over-the-top. My first drafts tend to be overly melodramatic, and only Jen's acidic wit trims them down. I can't seem to walk that fine line between spare and lush. I write lush badly but I'm too wordy for spare. Sigh. I prefer spare, minimal, and try so hard not to be purple, and fail miserably. Luckily I have my gusys (sic), as well as the calliopeia chicas, to rein me in so what finally gets posted is only tinged slightly lavender [like one of Lex's shirts *g*] instead of full-on bright Barney purple. Of course, I envy those writers who do purple well, just like I envy those writers who do spare well. I adore Faulkner but want to be Hemingway, stylistically. And I'm doomed to failure, because I like adjectives and those thrice-damned adverbs much too much. Sigh. Anyhow, here 'tis... Insert standard "I own nothing" disclaimer here. Consumption *** He had to save her, or the whole night would be meaningless. It was his fault she was up there, screaming. He tuned out the panicked sounds of the crowd, stampeding away from the ever-widening nimbus of white light radiating from the top of the building. He stood, frozen, as Magneto used the last of his considerable -- and unexpected -- strength to hold his metal-boned body in place. With an effort of will stronger than even he knew he possessed, Logan dug deep and urged his body to move. It didn't work, though he nearly passed out from the strain. He was going to fail. He'd promised to protect her, and he was going to fail. It was unacceptable, but it was true. A burst of red light hit the old man, breaking his concentration and sending him flying onto his back. The release of the hold on him almost sent Wolverine to his knees, but he used the forward momentum to propel himself at the machine, plunging his claws into the mechanism that spun the rings in which Rogue was entrapped. It made a shrieking noise as he shredded it, and the white light dissipated as rapidly as it had appeared. Rogue collapsed, her hands stuck to the metal posts that had drained the life out of her. He slashed at the cuffs around her wrists and lifted her in his arms. "Come on," he whispered. "Come on, kid." He slipped a gloved hand in the funnel of her turtleneck, but no pulse beat beneath his fingers. "Shit, Marie. Don't do this," he muttered. "Don't you dare die on me. Don't let the bastards win." There was no response. He slid one finger over the blinding white lock the machine had burned into her hair, and it came to him. Her skin. Using his teeth, he peeled off his glove and laid his hand flat against her forehead, then slid it down to cup her cheek. Nothing. "Dammit, Rogue," he growled. "I'm more stubborn than you are." And he kissed her, dragging his lips across her forehead, her temple, each delicate eyelid, and down the curve of her jaw. Suddenly, as he covered her lips with his own, in some mockery of CPR, he felt his skin begin to tingle, and then it burned as if someone had injected him with acid. He felt himself pouring into her -- heart, soul, mind and strength. His wounds, which had begun to heal, reopened, and he heard her gasp as her heart kicked into gear and her lungs began pumping air again. Her eyes snapped open, horrified, and she pushed at him. "What? What are you doing? Are you insane?" she raged as he toppled over. She dropped to her knees beside him, crying, "Too much. Too much. Oh, God, it was too much." Then he passed out and knew no more. *** I figure I'll follow this with a Rogue POV on the blackbird heading back to Westchester, another thing we never got to see in the movie. Then I have to have Logan and Rogue fall in love and still keep Scott and Jean interesting. Sigh. This whole large-scale plot thing is very tiring. Music this morning: I Think I Love You - the Partridge Family Shameless - Ani DiFranco Wishing Well - Bob Mould ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ 2001-12-16 - 5:55 p.m. Recipes Feeling so much better today. Sleep is a wonderful thing. I was just doing some last minute shopping on Amazon, and they have this really cool thing - you can send a gift certificate for $20 to a soldier/sailor/marine through Amazon for Christmas. A portion of the proceeds goes to the USO. So I did it. Christmas brings out the sap in me. I'll be giving money to homeless people on the street this week, a practice I normally avoid like the plague. Speaking of Christmas, I was going to start the fig cookies today, but Mommy had no almonds. So I'm thinking, sfinci for Christmas, and then fig cookies sometime between Christmas and New Year's. What are sfinci, you ask? Oh you poor unenlightened non-Sicilian. Puffy fried dough with powdered sugar. Also known as zeppole [though not, it must be noted, the same as the sfinci and zeppole for San Giuseppe]. You may have had them at bazaars or flea markets or the local pizzeria. For those of you who are interested, and don't mind deep-fried food, here's the recipe: Sfinci 2 cups flour 2 tsp. baking powder a pinch of salt 1/3 cup of sugar 2 tbsp. melted butter 2 eggs 1 3/4 cups milk Sift baking powder and flour together with salt. Blend sugar, eggs, butter and milk. Add the flour to the liquid mixture, blend until smooth. Drop into deep fryer, fry until golden brown. Blot on paper towels, to absorb oil. Sprinkle with powdered sugar. We use crisco or olive oil to fry 'em. They should be puffy and sweet and oh-so-yummy. For a more traditional dessert, here's my mom's cheesecake recipe: Graham cracker crumbs 1 lb. Cottage cheese (dry style) 2 8 oz. Packages of cream cheese 1 1/2 cups sugar 4 eggs, slightly beaten 1/3 cup corn starch 2 tbsp. lemon juice 1 tsp. vanilla 1/2 cup butter 1 pint sour cream Grease springform pan. Sprinkle graham cracker crumbs in pan. Sieve cottage cheese into large mixing bowl. Add cream cheese. Beat at high speed until well blended and creamy. Beating at high speed, blend in sugar, then eggs. Reduce speed to low. Add corn starch, lemon juice and vanilla. Beat until blended. Add melted butter and sour cream.. Blend at low speed. Pour into prepared pan. Bake in 325 oven about an hour 10 minutes or until firm around edge. Turn off oven. Let cake stand in over 2 hours. Remove and cool completely on wire rack. Chill. Remove sides of pan. Makes about 12 servings. If you try either of these, let me know how they turn out: musesfool@diaryland.com ~victoria [current mood: ] [current music: ] [random quote: ] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. 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