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

10.06.02 - 11:40 p.m. Tonight's Alias Thoughts on tonight's Alias are up in the LJ. ~victoria [current mood: ::winks::] [current music: A Sort of Homecoming - U2] [random quote: and you know it's time to go through the sleet and driving snow across the fields of mourning lights in the distance] ~*~ 10.06.02 - 6:25 p.m. Weekend Update I'm really boring lately, aren't I? I'm not even entertaining myself. I am enjoying my new apartment, however, even if my back is killing me from the unpacking. Still not done with it, and I feel like I won't ever be for some bits -- I have to buy a bookcase before I can unpack the 13 bins of books, but I washed and put away all the dishes and glasses, have unpacked four suitcases of clothes (hanging a lot of them, and sorting them into a couple of bins - sweaters, underwear/pjs, etc.), and the plan for tonight is to organize the unorganized CDs into the new binder, and hopefully clear some space on the video/cd rack for my Homicide tapes (which would empty another bin). I've done some exploring of the surrounding avenues - there's a CVS down the corner and an Associated right next door, so I've done some shopping, so I have food in the house. The bus stop to go to work is up the block the other way, so my commute to work should be *fabulous*. The cable got hooked up yesterday and to my shame I spent most of the day in front of the idiot box, when I wasn't unpacking or sleeping (this moving business is incredibly taxing, let me tell you). I watched GD1 in the afternoon, and then the Yankee game (heh. Losers.). Lee came over and we hung out - watched bits of various movies, and then Ace Ventura, which I had never seen. Then I watched last week's Sopranos and went to bed. Today I watched the Giants beat the Cowboys (hee!), and then finally saw an episode of Firefly - which is watchable, but not great. More on that in the LJ. So that's it. That's been my weekend - my past four days, actually. Tomorrow it's back to work and more of a routine. I'm already loving living here, even though the reality of it hasn't sunk in yet. I still can't quite believe it's my apartment when I stop and think about it. I keep thinking I have to go back to Queens - that this is just like a hotel room or something. But it's not. It's mine! All mine! Whee! ~victoria link [current mood: achy but happy] [current music: She Came In Through the Bathroom Window - Beatles] [random quote: didn't anybody tell her didn't anybody see Sunday's on the phone to Monday Tuesday's on the phone to me] ~*~ 10.04.02 - 8:51 p.m. Movin' on Up I am moved in. And I have a working phone. Finally. I had no phone service, or rather, the phone worked, but it was the old phone number and not my plan (no caller ID), and no long distance service. But now, now I'm sitting pretty in my new bedroom, ready to get online and cringe at the mail I have to catch up on. The move went extraordinarily smoothly. Even things that seemed like huge problems worked out. I got up at 5am - I was at my parents house, and we were going with rush hour, so we had to get into Queens early, because the movers were supposed to show between 8am and 10am. They arrived about twenty after 9 and were done loading the truck by 10:30. The ride into the city was fine- no real traffic, just some volume, and then the street was blocked off. They were repaving a section or something. So they backed the truck down the block from the other side. The rest of the day was spent shifting bins around and trying to get somewhat organized. My dad hung blinds in the windows so the world can't see in (I'm on the first floor on a pretty busy street - there's a school and a church across the street from me) and hooked up my stereo and dvd player, so I had some entertainment. Mommy and I cleaned the bathroom and started putting pots and pans and all that crap away. We had lunch from the deli up the block, and dinner at the Italian trattoria around the corner. It was good. I love this neighborhood already. Today I washed my dishes - service for twelve. Dinner plates, salad plates, soup bowls and saucers. I'll do the cups and glasses tomorrow. I'm a little less overwhelmed today, but still... I have way too much stuff. Even after getting rid of so much. I didn't go to work today as planned, because I had to wait for the Verizon tech to come -he was supposed to come yesterday, but when I called, the woman said they could turn service on from the office. Then I called later - still not my service or number - and they said a tech would have to come - there was a problem on the line. So I waited all day, because they said any time from 8-5. He showed up at 5:15pm, after I called a number of times to yell at the call center people. I am not paying their damned $55 moving fee. A pox upon them. Last night I unpacked most of my cds and dvds and put them in the rack. I hung up some clothes and my coats. I watched most of Harry Potter, but had to go to bed at 11, 'cause I was spent. But, I'm moved in, and so very happy. Didja miss me? ~victoria link [current mood: happy but tired] [current music: some Creed song] [random quote: Movin on up to the east side to a deluxe apartment in the sky...] ~*~ 10.02.02 - 8:43 p.m. A Slayer on Gont, draft 1.1 Okay, here's a slayer on Gont. It needs a title, and it's still in draft, so comments are welcome, particularly from people familiar with the books. The idea is Twinkledru's - plop a slayer down in a fictional world where one doesn't generally exist, and make it fit with the mythos. I think I managed that part, but this is sort of exposition heavy. I'm not sure... *** Ghost fingers of fog shadow the trees and hide the mountain. She runs, feeling as if her heart will burst from her chest. Branches catch at her clothes, snag in her hair. Still, she runs. She knows this path like the back of her hand, a childhood spent wandering aimlessly, unwatched and unwanted, coming to her aid now. She sees a soft light glimmering through the mist, silvering the trees ahead. Have they gotten in front of her? Are they even now surrounding her? She clutches the stake in her right hand, checks the hilt of the knife at her belt with her left. She is ready. They’ve killed her master, but they will not take her without a fight. She’s sure she can survive if she can get to the Old Mage’s House. She is... falling. She lands on something soft. It grunts, resolves itself into a man as she blinks to clear her vision. Grey cloak. Yew staff. Wizard. They stand almost simultaneously. He’s a few inches taller than she, but not tall. Dark hair, eyes, skin, lean, his clothes shabby under the grey cloak of Roke. She feels his eyes on her and knows she looks like the vagabond she is -- leather breaches, rough cotton tunic, dark hair full of leaves, escaping the tight bun in which she keeps it wound. “Master wizard,” she says, her voice even despite the frantic run through the wood. She’s already recovering. “Are you all right?” His voice is deep, concerned, comforting. “It’s not safe here,” she says, breathing deeply, centering herself. “The demons, the blood drinkers--" His eyes widen. “Orglath,” he whispers, naming them in the Speech of the Making. She shivers involuntarily -- to name a thing is to call it, and the orglath are far too close for such casual mention. “I will protect you,” he says, his face grim and set. His cloak swirls about his shoulders and he reaches for his knife. She notices the scar on his cheek -- five gashes black against the deep bronze of his skin. He knows the darkness; it has left its mark on him. She suddenly feels safer, even though he has it wrong -- she will protect him. She has no time to tell him, though, because the first of the demons leaps out of the trees and tackles her. She wrestles with it, kicking hard and jumping to her feet, plunging the stake into its heart before it has a chance to get off the ground. Two more hurl through the woods and attack, eyes glinting yellow in the dim light clinging to the end of the wizard’s staff. She launches another kick, striking one in the shoulder. She spins and plants the stake into the chest of the third one, who explodes into a cloud of dust. The wizard beheads the third one with his knife as the leader enters the clearing. She recognizes him -- riding leathers, long, greasy hair, his tunic stained with the blood of her master. Two more demons follow. Instinct takes over. She is a weapon forged in magic and fire, destined to fight darkness wherever she goes. Ducking, rolling, punching, staking. She is a flurry of motion, focused only on the task at hand. She’s done with the demons before the wizard has a chance to help. When she comes back to herself, the rush of battle still singing in her veins, she notices he’s crouching behind her, knife in hand, and wonders why he called no magic fire to help her, as her master had been wont to do. They stare at each other for a moment, and then she says, with a low bow, “I am called Fin.” He graciously inclines his head in return. “I am Sparrowhawk.” She gasps at the name; after all that has happened that night, this is the one thing that surprises her. She may live on the fringes, going from isle to isle, spending her nights on the hunt, but she has heard of him. All of Earthsea knows his name. “The dragonlord.” He laughs, which makes her blink again. “The dragons have no lords among men, little one. I was lucky they chose to speak with me instead of eating me. That’s all.” He seems embarrassed by her admiration, his manner humble. “The blood drinkers don’t give us that choice,” she says. “I’ve heard the rumors, but--" He stops, scans the area, and she can easily see him as a hawk, fierce and regal, riding the winds over Gont. “It’s not safe out here. Come with me to my master’s house.” He leads the way and she follows. It is ever thus for Fin. She finds herself telling him her story, the story no one has ever asked to hear. She has no recollection of her family. Her childhood was spent with Calla, the village witch in a hamlet so small it’s not even marked on the maps of Gont she has seen since then. She learned the ancient lore handed down among women, that men have no desire to know. At twelve, a mage came to the village and named her by the waterfall that she bathed in once a week. The next day, he took her back to Roke -- Root, he was called, and he became her master, watching over her while she learned more about the orglath than even old Calla had been able to teach her. While she had never been allowed inside the school itself, the Master Namer and the Summoner both came to Thwiltown to meet complete her training. At fourteen she had been Called, her strength increasing and her fighting skills honed to preternatural sharpness. With Root she set off to fight the forces of darkness all around the Archipelago, from the East Reach almost to Selidor. “But they killed him tonight,” she says as they reach the Old Mage’s House north of Re Albi. “Four years together and I failed him when it counted most.” Sparrowhawk offers no words of comfort beyond, “We will be safe here.” He opens the door, his hand warm and strong under her elbow, and she knows he speaks the truth. The orglath cannot enter a house unless invited. Ogion greets them silently, no surprise evident on his careworn face. There are three mugs of hot tea on the kitchen table, waiting. Fin doesn’t question. She knows she is only a vessel though which great power works. These men are wise and learned -- they will tell her what to do. “The legends are true?” Sparrowhawk asks as they sip the fragrant tea. Ogion nods. “Aye. One girl in all the world, called to fight the powers of darkness.” “We maintain the equilibrium,” she murmurs, mouthing the words the Master Summoner had taught her. “Through us the Old Powers flow.” “Since Segoy raised Éa, it has been thus,” Ogion says. He stands abruptly. “Come, our guest is tired.” And she suddenly remembers that he is called, ‘the Silent.’ He has spoken his fill for the night. He shows her the pallet next to the fire and she slips down upon it gracefully, gratefully. *** She wakes to the scent of tea. Sparrowhawk stands before her, holding out a mug. “Good morning, Fin.” She smiles at his grave courtesy. To most people, she is an outcast, a beggar, not even a witch to be feared, and certainly not a respectable maiden. But these two powerful, wise men are treating her like an equal, an honored guest. “Good morning,” she replies, shaking the sleep out of her eyes and taking the mug. She holds it tightly; it warms her against the chill of the dawn. Part of her longs to stay here, safe, guarded against the darkness by powerful mages. Home. But she knows her life is out in the world. There is no home for her, no rest until she’s dead. She takes her calling seriously, though the wizards often treat her like a child. “You saved my life last night,” he says. “No--" she surprises herself by interrupting him. Such behavior would not be tolerated on Roke, but he is less -- not less powerful, but less proud than the other mages she’s met. He and Ogion both seem at ease in their skins, in the world. “You are a dragonlord. Surely the blood drinkers hold no sway over such a powerful wizard.” He laughs, which delights her. Root had been a serious man, given to pomposity, with little use for levity. “We are taught the legends of the orglath,” again he uses the Old Speech and it sends a chill through her bones. He is very brave to name them so casually, even safe within the Old Mage’s House, in daylight where they cannot fare. “But we are also taught that that’s all they are -- legends.” He shakes his head. “People should be informed. No one should be ignorant--" Again she interrupts. “People know. That is why they tolerate me. The kindness of the people I protect clothes and feeds me.” “You shouldn’t have to wander and beg.” She shrugs. “Most people are comfortable in the world. They see only what they want to, and can forget that the Old Powers exist. I am a reminder of all that is not peaceful, and that disturbs them. They don’t like being reminded.” “You could stay with Ogion. He is a kind master. I lived here once, before I knew how good it was.” She shakes her head. “I can’t. I have a duty -- there are lives to be saved, demons to be fought.” She tucks her feet under herself, feeling very small and alone. “Will you inform Roke that my master is dead, and that I am here on Gont, and will be, until I am called to go elsewhere?” “I will,” he promises, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. She’d like nothing more than to stay here with him and Ogion, cooking and cleaning for them, making a home. Ogion returns then, and he and Sparrowhawk prepare breakfast in companionable silence while Fin watches, amazed that two wizards don’t just summon up a meal, but instead crack eggs and stir porridge like everyone else. They don’t let her help, which baffles and yet delights her. When they are done, Sparrowhawk walks her to the path. “I meant what I said. You saved my life. If ever you need me, my true name is Ged. Call and I will come.” She stares in shock. “Go, little Anila. Be safe.” Again the tears burn the back of her eyes, but she blinks them away. “Thank you.” They clasp hands for a moment -- she is amazed that he treats her with such respect, as an equal, and she smiles at the sound of her true name. Anila. Slayer. And she knows she has made the right choice, and that her Calling is true. end *** And now I must go take a shower, as West Wing is on in 20 minutes. ~victoria link [current mood: tired] [current music: Enterprise in the background] [random quote: she came from the grave much graver] ~*~ 10.02.02 - 11:14 a.m. Night for day I find myself being drawn into Bel Canto despite myself. The omniscient narrator is somewhat distant, and the character of Roxane Coss a little too ... not perfect, she's not perfect, but a little too *much*, in some ways. I've since decided to take a more magic realism approach to the story, and it works much better that way. I was riveted through the train ride to the parents' last night, and would have been this morning, as well, except well, Gont Slayer spoke up and so I wrote that instead (it's waiting to be typed up even as we speak. Anyone out there got a grip on Earthsea and want to give a quick beta? I made up a couple of words in the Old Speech for vampire and slayer, but I don't know if I got Ged or Ogion right, or even the feel of Earthsea. So help is appreciated. Email me or leave a comment if you're interested). Anyhow, these two passages really impressed me (though I still feel there are commas missing. I don't like all this comma-less-ness. It makes me feel very unstable) both in the writing itself and in the ideas expressed. Patchett is making me think about things like love and death and time, and that's never a bad thing in a writer. These are spoilerish (especially the first one), so if anyone is planning to read Bel Canto, turn back now. ~*~ It was the accompanist they felt the loss of, even all the men who had so recently sent their wives and lovers outside, watching them walk away in the full splendor of their evening dress, they were thinking of the dead man. They had not known him at all. Many assumed he was an American. There they were, steadily producing insulin as a matter of course while another man died without it so that he could stay with the woman he loved. Each of them asked himself if he would have done the same and each decided the chances were good that he would not. The accompanist embodied a certain recklessness of love that they had not possessed since their youth. What they did not understand was that Roxane Coss, who now sat in the corner of one of the large down sofas, weeping quietly into Mr. Hosokawa's handkerchief, had never been in love with her accompanist, that she had hardly known him at all except in a professional capacity, and that when he had tried to express his feelings to her it turned out to be a disastrous mistake. The kind of love that offers its life so easily, so stupidly, is always the love that is not returned. Simon Thibault would never die in a foolish gesture for Edith. On the contrary, he would take every cowardly recourse available to him to ensure that their lives were spent together. But without all the necessary facts, no one understood what had happened, and all they could think was that the accompanist had been a better, braver man, that he had loved more fully than they were capable of loving. and this: The garúa made sense, while atmospheric clarity would not. When one looked out the window now it was impossible to see as far as the wall which cut off the garden from the street. It was difficult to make out the shapes of the trees, to tell a tree from a shrub. It made the daylight seem like dusk in much the same way the floodlights that had been set up on the other side of the wall almost made night into day, the kind of false, electric day of an evening baseball game. In short, when one looked out the window during the garúa all one really saw was the garúa itself, not day or night or season or place. The day no longer progressed in its normal, linear fashion but instead every hour circled back to its beginning, every moment was lived over and over again. Time, in the manner in which they had all understood it, was over. ~*~ Beautiful, non? Now I'm going to try to type up Gont Slayer (still untitled). Check this space later, as it might be up in all its first draft glory. ~victoria link [current mood: thoughtful] [current music: Woman in Love - TP & the HBs] [random quote: She will walk through the fire, some people never learn...] ~*~ 10.01.02 - 11:22 p.m. Tuesday night tv BtVS and Smallville thoughts up in the LJ. Just let me say, Heat? Gayest. Episode. Ever. *nods* Oh yeah. So I just get through writing about how I'm a short story writer, and then I get the NaNoWriMo link. 50,000 words in 30 days. On the one hand, I'd love to try it. On the other, it takes me freaking weeks sometimes to write 1,000 words. I've NEVER managed 50K on anything, let alone an original story. So I'm mulling. ~victoria link [current mood: tired and giddy] [current music: Yankees-Angels in the background] [random quote: the grabbing hands grab all they can, all for themselves after all it's a competitive world...] ~*~ 10.01.02 - 4:26 p.m. everything counts in large amounts Gah. I thought my access to this was gone. ::puts hand to chest as heart palpitates:: Because Jenn did it, and I am always interested in geeky measurements of my work... (I hope the formatting works.) Novels (70,000 words and up) N/A Novellas (30,000 - 70,000) Consumption (WIP) 38,857 Short Stories (30,000 - 10,000) Harbor in the Tempest 23,717 All of Heaven Away (6 stories) 21,719 Off the Corner (7 stories) 19,084 Flirtation 101 18,075 The Mutant Bride 17,862 Untouchable Face 17,746 Soiled Dove 16,578 Time's Fool 16,218 Best Laid Plans 15,151 Inescapable X 14,875 In Plain Sight 12,050 Shortest Stories (10,000 down) Night of the Dead Living 10,107 Gilded Cages, Broken Wings 9,834 Long Hard Road 9,644 Keep it like a secret 9,332 Comfort me with apples 7,861 Caveat Emptor 5,719 (w/o epilogue) Blood Wedding 4,834 In the Service of the Queen 3,300 Different Paths 3,027 A Touch of Frost 2,740 Faculty Follies 2,525 Childish Things 2,280 32 Flavors 1,963 From the Outside In 1,597 Burying the Dead 1,372 Kindness Falls Like Rain 1,305 The space between 1,191 A Thousand Words 1,000 Crave 926 Don't Turn Around 627 Dance with Destiny 506 The Art of Breathing 324 West Wing in 25 Words 100 As you can see, I'm most comfortable between 7,000-12,000 words, and also in the under 5,000 words area. This says to me that I should probably, when attempting original fiction, start with short stories, as I seem to have a better handle on them. Long stories tend to get away from me -- even the ones that are in the 12K-15K range have problems that don't crop up with the shorter works (usually with the rushing the ending business, or leaving subplots dangling), and I think I've got the beginnings and endings *nailed* on short stories, and honestly, that's the hard part (endings, especially. I like to think my short stories tend to end either with a punch or with a memorable line that wraps the whole thing up). So yeah, either the one act, two character play that every beginning writer tackles, or the short story. I can handle 2000 words, or 6000 words. 80,000 scares the living hell out of me. In other news, we just had a little baby shower for one of the women here at BEMC. The cake we had - this caramel chocolate pecan torte - was phenomenal. I mean, like heaven on a paper plate. Unfortunately, I didn't move fast enough and lost out on the last piece. I'd have had no qualms about having seconds, let me tell you. ~victoria link [current mood: gluttonous] [current music: the guy in the next cube's conference call] [random quote: I know that I was born and I know that I'll die, in between is mine, I am mine] ~*~ previous - next DiaryLand Disclaimer: Reading this diary is not required by law. If you do not like or agree with the contents herein, or find them to be offensive on more than one occasion, please go elsewhere and don't come back. Management is not responsible for any adverse reactions to content within. The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme. The quote is from Sir Philip Sidney. This site is best viewed with IE4+ | 1024x768 | true color | verdana | tables