Lightning (Bug) - In which the first paragraph is inexplicably centered...

As I am nearing the 200 page mark in my book, I find myself both befuddled that I have made it this far and nervously excited about the next step. It is rare that I show anybody my work before it is finished (probably why I never show my work - it's never finished,) and moving from that to foisting my work off on anybody I can get to read it and offer (kindly phrased) constructive criticism is somewhat (i.e., extremely) nerve-wracking.

That wasn't why I came back here today, though. It's been months, and a lot has changed - although on the surface it seems like things are pretty much the same. I remain in my house, and while I am growing to like the home itself, I am steadfast on my position regarding its location. However, the realization that renting the house as opposed to my original desire to sell it would bring in more income over the long haul and thus free me from the guilt of moving as soon as humanly possible has engendered a certain amount of contentment regarding my situation. 

So, I am writing more, which makes me feel more like my creative self as well as reading and listening to classical music, which makes me feel more like my intellectual self. I continue to study Spanish and Chinese, although not as often as I'd like. I think the guilt resulting from my feelings regarding the house it put me into a funk for a few months, from which I've very gratefully emerged. I have narrowed down my geographical relocation to either D.C. or San Francisco and areas of California north of it (as opposed to towards the LA region, which I have no desire to even visit, really.) The house will be fixed in the spring, and hopefully I can continue my work with K. over the phone if I do relocate to the west coast. 

So why am I here? Maybe in part I miss sending my thoughts out into the world now that I am proudly Facebook free. I've also been reading articles about employers moving from traditional resumes to looking at potential employees web/social media presence, so I'm looking into moving the blog to the domain name I purchased years ago and trying to transform it into a "real" writing-oriented website. I'm cataloging my progress and holding onto it as a talisman against Elmiraitis. And now, back to work. At least a hundred pages to go. May the force be with you. 

"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter - it's the diff. between the lightning bug and the lightning." - Mark Twain

Listening to: Gotye, "Somebody That I Used to Know"

Reading: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

The Intellectual Reclamation Project, Entry 1

Read: Anton Chekhov, Ward No. 6

Ok, technically it's a "story," but it's a start.

Listening to: Rimsky-Korsakov, Scheherazade Suite

Cuteness

Exactly

"Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sounds - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then do not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not...for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.That is the only way one can judge it."

- Ranier Maria Rilke

* Thanks to my favorite aunt for passing along this piece of truth.

Lost Words #6

All in the Details

I keep obsessing over Sam's eyes. You see, he cuts his hair, and you can see his eyes more. And Ryan of course has to comment on it. He can't leave anything alone, especially not an opportunity to gently rib his best friend. You know apple jolly ranchers? That was my first idea - too bright. Yoda green? Kind of sickly looking, as far as eyes would be concerned. Starbucks green? They do deserve a mention after all of the free drinks they've given me. Trees, grass...not specific enough. I need something green. Just one perfect eye color shade of green. Something Crayola? I still like the jolly ranchers, but those apple ones are practically florescent.

See what I mean? It's maddening. So, any readers out there, I'm up for suggestions. Winner gets a prize. A green one.

Lost Words #5

It's a meta4, fool.

Dream #18

I was with Ted and Marshall standing in the middle of the street; the street was quite hilly, and the houses very posh Victorian houses. We were all very, very drunk and psyched because it was the night when the rich people put out super cool stuff onto the sidewalk. The two of them were about twenty feet up the hill, talking. I looked up into a third floor window of one of the houses and saw a man who looked kind of like a thin Hurley from Lost looking down at me. I did one of those point two fingers at my eyes then his "I've got my eyes on you" kind of things. Then, suddenly, I'm rolling down the hill and I'm too drunk to stop myself. I'm kind of laughing and I yell up to them "I'm rolling! I'm rolling!" and they run after me, yelling "She's rolling! She's rolling!" to catch me before I roll into traffic.

Lost Words #4

The one that started it all: a post-it I found in an Ithaca parking garage last year. It was just so...cute.

Dream #17

I was turned into a vampire by Ryan Gosling. We had to draw symbols on our hands to call for help. I was going to have to come up with my own, but until then mine was a triangle followed by a number. I remember jumping up into a tree and then onto a roof, trying to escape somebody. At some point, I was at a family gathering. I wanted to take William with me, but he was afraid of me now that I was a vampire. At another point, I was making my way through a school with my mom, trying to find a place where we could talk. I used the symbol to call the ship to me, and we went up into it to talk about the whole vampire thing. I think we decided that if I took William with me, he would get used to it.

Listening to: Plants and Animals, "Bye Bye Bye"

Lost Words #3

Totally how I feel tonight...

Dreams #15, 16

The first:

I'm on a spaceship, but it's not Serenity - it's more of an Enterprisey ship. I'm in a room with several other people who are trying to convince me that I should let them put this freaky gross long white tapeworm thing on my back that will scan me for something, save the ship or the world, etc. After arguing with them back and forth for a long time, I say that I will only do it if Nathan Fillion asks me to and if he does it.

The second:

I read for a part in a movie. There's a screening on the beach - there are about 50-100 of us who read for one of these small parts there, and we have to watch the movie before we find out who got the part. The beach slopes down towards the water, and the folding chairs seem somewhat precarious and set too close to each other. I pick a seat, and the people surrounding me start insulting and swearing at me. When my chair wobbles and I accidentally knock into one of them, the person pushes me. I actually stand up and defend myself and ask them what their problem is. The director comes over and yells at them, but I don't remember iof he kicked them out or not. I move a few rows towards the back with the dorks and ask if I can sit with them. They look around for a minute, trying to figure out how to rearrange their seats to accommodate me, and I sit down next to this skinny kid with long, curly dark hair.

The dream flashes to us sitting in an indoor theater, one of those really old ones that look like an opera house. I'm still sitting in one of the back rows with the same group of guys. I'm talking to the skinny kid about how may auditions he goes to (a lot) and where he lives (Georgetown). We're discussing setting up some sort of schedule so he can come and visit me.

I'm back outside, talking to this woman who is threatening to sue or ruin the guy I'm with, who has been taking pictures of orchids that are across the border in Mexico. I ask her if she will agree not to press charges if I can get him to return the photos and agree not to take them anymore. I go back inside the theater and scramble over the people in the row to talk to him and tell him what's going on.

Then it flashes to what movie is playing - some Rob Zombie horror movie. I'm not looking at the screen, because it's really disgusting. Then we're in this hotel room and it turns out that the movie is real. This middle-aged, rather large woman with thin, scraggly black hair is in her bed - rather, her torso is. She's been chopped in two. Her torso sits upright in the bed, surrounded by blood.

54 Days

In 54 days, I will be 35 years old. One day after that, I will be closer to forty than to thirty. Growing old doesn't bother me. Dying before I've grown old does. That's the biggest fear of all - that I will die before I get my shit together. Before I publish my novel. Before I find my love. Before I have a baby.

You'd think, given that I have fifty-four days left, I would be working on the book right now. I should be working on it non-stop. I should have been working on it non-stop during the many, many months during which I've been out of work.

I hate that I'm not. I hate whatever it is that holds me back. What do I do instead of write? At the moment, I'm rewatching Letters to Juliet. The other night, I drooled over the NY Times real estate section. I plan what to do with my millions before I have them, all the while reminding myself that nothing leads to nothing. That's a song, isn't it? And now I interrupt my post to google the lyrics, since I am incapable of letting those things go.

I wish I were one of those nauseatingly gung-ho people you read about occasionally who make it look so easy. Oh, that dream of mine? You know, climb Mount Everest in my knickers even though I'm blind and deaf and bow-legged and I lost three of my toes before 1,500 feet? Noooooo problem. Piece of cake. Why? Because I'm a doer. I do things. Leap tall buildings with a single, determined bound? Done. Finish a novel? Hell, I'll write TEN.

Excuse me - I think I just vomited a bit in my mouth.

You know me. I have my dreams (two Teds, two Sweets, and a Chuck in the last week or so - nothing solid enough to post, although in one dream I could seriously feel Ted's too-solid tongue when he kissed me), I watch my movies, I collect the words and the love that I find around me, since I have none of my own. Sad, sad story. Cue the violins.

I did look through the book today, though - all fifteen chapters. Too much of it sucks right now, it's depressing. However, I am determined. If nothing else, I will finish the rough draft in 54 days. I will deal with the suck. Chapter one out of the five I have left must be done by Wednesday. Thirteen days a piece for the four left after that.

Maybe I am one of those people after all. Ew.

Lost Words #2

I love this little bit of history I found for a penny - lost words from the night of Kennedy's acceptance speech at the DNC in 1960. Pretty cool, huh?

Dream #14

I was playing video games in my house after having wrestled with a rather large copy machine that started to smell like it was burning. Somebody knocked at the door. I opened it, and Zachary Levi was there. We shook hands like there was nothing odd about somebody I'd never met (and him to boot) just showing up at my house out of the blue. He simply asked what I was doing and when I told him, he came in and we played video games together. Oh, and he thought it was cool we were both wearing cons.

The Wrong Side of Real

I totally woke up on the wrong side of the bed today - or futon, rather. My Nathan Fillion dream slipped away from me, and for the first few hours I was awake I was in that in-between state where I flipped back and forth from feeling whiny one minute to wanting somebody at whom I could yell the next.

I'm still feeling a bit groggy, but at least the other urges have passed. The SDA (Starbucks Drink Approximation) has helped a little. Still, it's one of those days where I'm not feeling the book. Despite the surprising amount of progress I've made in the last couple of weeks, I'm only at 73 pages and 22,806 words. That's about 25% of what the book's total length should be. I'm pretty confident I'll still reach my goal of finishing the very, very rough draft by my birthday, despite the fact that my sad little book will likely only be 100 pages - one third of what the final draft should be. The amount of work I have left to do before my first novel is ready to be sent out into the world is staggering.

The second and third/final drafts, I am guessing, will be substantially harder to write than the first. The first is easy. Get the plot down and make as much of it as you can decent writing. In the second, I'll have to more than double the word count. I'll be adding another eight or so full chapters to fill in the ones that, for expediency's sake, I skipped in the first round. I'll also have to bulk up my current chapters by between 7-10 pages per chapter. All of this will have to be done in a manner in which the new chapters meld with the old. I'll have to edit as I go and I suck at editing.

I really wish I'd been keeping a time sheet for my writing. Despite the fact that I woke up with the idea for the book in my head approximately three years ago, I'm guessing I've spent two months writing it full-time if I add up the hours. Let's say it will take approximately three months then for a first draft. Allowing for the difficulty level of the second draft (after which I'll be passing it around for constructive criticism), I'm not sure what goal to set for finishing that part. The end of this year seems too soon - it's only eight months after the first draft should be finished. Before I turn thirty-six on 4/15/2012? By the end of 2012? I work so much better with a deadline. Of course, all of this is dependent upon if/when I ever find gainful employment.

By the end of 2012 is the latest I'd like to get it done, so for now I think I'll set the goals as finishing the second draft by 4/14/2012 and the final book by 12/31/2012. If necessary because of work or other unforseen circumstances, I'll push the deadlines back as far as finishing the final book by 4/14/2013 so that at the very least, it will be finished while I'm still 36. God, this is nauseating. It's rather real now. I'm 90% sure that the SSP (super-secret project) will be done before the novel but only 3% sure that something will come of it. There's this - the blog that I intend to keep if/when I ever miraculously get published. More than both of those combined is the enormity of finishing a novel and sending it out into the world. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I remember. I wrote my first novel when I was thirteen. If we go from there, that's twenty-three years of working towards a goal. Twenty-three friggin' years. That's a long-ass time. To fail after that - after twenty-three years of waiting for my dream to come true...Do you recover from that? Stephen King's first book was rejected. I'd like to think I would go on. That I wouldn't give up. But for now, eighty-six days from turning 35 and eighty-seven from being closer to forty than to thirty, all I can think of is how terrifying fighting for your dream is.

Wish me luck, ok?

Listening to:

Gramercy Arms, "Looking at the Sun"

Crooked Fingers, "Louisa's Bones"

Dreams #12, 13

I apologize if these dreams sound a bit garbled or incomplete - I woke up feeling incredibly dizzy and groggy both times.

The first:

I was working in a residence home for juveniles. We had these wire mesh cubbies in the front room for our things. This girl left a creepy note in mine saying she knew who I was and what I was doing and she was going to kick my ass. I was being bullied there - somehow I got out and was driving home but she'd taken my clothes so I got pulled over by the cops for driving sans clothing. The cops are acting very odd - they won't let me say a word or make a phone call even though I keep asking them if I can just tell them what happened. They give me this long scarf and have me wrap myself in it like a mummy to cover myself. They take me back to work. I'm sitting in the waiting room watching a dozen or so of the cops gathered around one cop car chatting happily like they solved some big crime and they're just superpsyched. They do one of those things where teams all huddle and put their hands on each others and goooo! break! team!

They come into the building and tell me that I'm a spy. I keep telling them that they're wrong and I have no idea what they're talking about. I think at some point they realize that I'm not lying and that somebody did something to me to suppress my memories. I say (after what seems an interminable amount of time being questioned) that I'll only cooperate if they let me have William with me and if I can talk to my mom on the phone on a regular basis. They say yes. They pry open my mouth. It feels like they're pulling out a tooth but what comes out is this rather large microchip thing - it's about an inch and a half wide and three inches or so long.

The rest of the dream kept fading out - flashes from event to event. I think they were keeping me drugged when they weren't having me doing things. At some point I admit that I had always wanted to be a spy but I was too fat and lacked the hand-eye coordination, couldn't think on my feet fast enough, etc. Chuck, Casey and Morgan are there along with a bunch of other teams. The teams of two are sparring. I guess at this point I've been there for a while because I finally believe them and I think if I start to fight I'll know how. I tell Chuck I want to fight, too. Morgan's all psyched because apparently they have me in a t-shirt and no underwear so I go to the drawer to find some and I take a pair out. Casey tells me those are the wrong ones and I look at them, but they look like the ones I always wore so I put them on - it turns out they're six sizes too big. Through all of the haze and drugs and whatever they've been doing to me I lost all of the weight and I'm in seriously great shape. I put the right ones on and go out and spar with Chuck and it's fun and I'm good.

The next thing I remember is finding out that somehow 100 years have passed and we're in the future. I find myself coming to in what looks like a circular room inside of a space ship. Chuck and Morgan are talking about how the future is cool because you can get real light sabers and not just those plastic toy ones. I join in and say how cool that is.

A little bit later I'm in another room and suddenly I slump to the floor. Chuck comes over. He's wearing a white t-shirt. He sits down and asks me what's wrong. I say that if 100 years have really passed then my mom is dead and I don't know how long she had to live without me and now I have to live without her. I start to cry. He talks to me in a low voice and comforts me and I forget what he's telling me but it seems like he's trying to convince me that it really is ok somehow.

The second:

I'm being kept somewhere - people are trying to sell me off to the highest bidder, but I'm not sure for what, only that when they're done with me they'll kill me. They keep giving me things to do - learn to play the piano (which Lester tries to teach me), find the perfect sexy but not trashy bikini, etc. The last one I think had something to do with food. I go into this room and a lot of the characters are there - from different shows, too, which is unusual for me. I say that I need somebody smart and pretty to help me and I call for Mark (Sloan). One of the other characters looks offended because I hadn't asked them and I assured him that I needed Mark for a reason and apologized. I think we were going to try to poison the people who were holding me because whatever Mark and I came up with involved a big box full of bags of cough drops - in the picture on the bags, the cough drops are this really gross shade of green and they have flies surrounding them like "we'll rot your cough away" and we were going to use them to do something to the food.

I know, it's a rather abrupt ending to that dream, but it's all I remember.

Nerd Love

Dream #11 - aka, More Sweets

I should preface this dream by three things; one, the leading characters in my dreams do tend to go in phases; two, this is the third (or fourth, I'm not sure) Sweets dream I've had in the last couple of weeks; three, I jotted this down bleary-eyed when I woke up in the middle of the night so the ordering might not be 100% accurate. That said, here we go:

I was working as the lunch manager in some sort of Sam's Club type of place with Booth and Sweets and a couple of other guys - I forget who. I must have been new (either at the store or at that position) because my badge was one of those paper temporary card things.

One of the girls who worked there was supposed to have sold this giant roast thing whole but she had cut it into slices and was going to get into big trouble. I was trying to help her figure out how long the meat would stay good so we could try to find some other way to sell it so she wouldn't get fired. I said that I knew somebody who was "really into tenderloin". The woman and I were cutting through this field that seemed to go on forever. She was a few steps ahead of me and I saw a dollar on the ground, but when I picked it up it turned out to be a few fives and a few dollars - yay dream.

I'm not sure where these next two parts fit into the dream - before the Giant Roast Tenderloin Caper of 2011 or after.

All of the guys were playing some sort of rpg - I asked them which one they were going to play and they took it to mean I was asking to join them. I went off on some tangent about how I used to play magic and vampire (which I did) and warcraft (which I didn't) and that some friends of mine had worked for white wolf and tsr but that it had been a while. I didn't actually want to play and I didn't end up playing, but I don't remember actually saying that in the dream.

Oh, and Casey also worked there. He was put on registers and he was getting frustrated because he couldn't figure out the keys. I went over and showed him how the shape the keys formed looked kind of like a gun. I asked him to tell me about the gun and how the gun would work and told him to picture the keys like parts of the gun. He gave me that grudgingly pleased grunt.

Now, Act Three, or what I like to call happy (but quintessentially weird) dream time.

I was upset about something and I was walking through the field again, alongside a dirt road and this time away from the store. A jeep slowly passes me and as it does, I see that Booth is driving and Sweets is in the passenger's seat. They slow down and then stop as they pass me. I thought I saw Sweets catch my eye so I turn around and start hurrying back towards the store. Sweets got out and ran over and caught me by the arm to ask me what was wrong. I was embarrassed because I assumed that Booth had told Sweets something like "duh, she's in love with you" or something like that.

Flash to: I'm back at the store, in the back which was mainly all empty except that the back wall was lined with four or five large spaces partitioned off - like separate rooms missing the front wall. Booth had made a mistake and I was trying to fix it. For some reason, this involved me doing something with bunson burners and glass pipettes. And since I'm so not a chemist I managed to catch the room on fire, so I went out the back door because I think Booth is there and I need to tell him "uh, help, the room's on fire" but Sweets is out there with his girlfriend who has just broken up with him and some older man that is somebody's father. I only see the girl from the side, but it looks like that April girl he dated before Daisy. I apologize profusely for bothering him and mumble something about the fire. The fatherly guy comes in and helps me get the fire under control while I try to explain that I'm not a drug addict and wasn't cooking meth.

Finally, Sweets comes in (alone) and I'm talking to him. He asks me how I'm adjusting. I tell him that I really like it there but I still have to find furniture and I don't really know where anything is. He says that he knows some places and asks me if I'd like him to show me around the city. I say yes, that would be great and he says how about we meet at this place at this time - it's outside but there's a tent over it so we can walk around and look at things. I'm all nervous but I say yes and the understanding seems to be that it's going to be a date or kind of a date but that at the very least, we like each other.

Lost Words #1

Twice a year, there is a massive book sale in Ithaca, NY. I go on the day when all of the books cost ten cents - I like to navigate the stacks and see what little treasures I can unearth. Last spring I found a postcard. On it was written something I found somewhat amazing, and I bought it. It cost a penny.

Last summer, I found a post-it in the parking garage across the street from my Starbucks. There was something written on it; the combination of content and handwriting struck me, and I picked it up. I saved it.

Last year (I don't remember when), I found two more of what I call lost words - one was a license plate and the other was a piece of graffiti that made me smile. I collect the words. I was hoping I would find them more easily, but so far I only have the four. I wanted to make a website for my writing projects - try to market myself, get some readers and possibly wiggle my way into getting paid for any of this. I bought the domain name - www.adriennecook.com is all mine. The problem is, I don't know anything about web design and I can't afford to hire somebody. I have a design in my head, and my lost words would fit in nicely.

In the meantime, I thought I would occasionally post the pictures here. If and when I ever do have actual content on my website, I will begin to transfer all of this over there. I hope you enjoy finding my lost words. I know I did.