Plodding, that's what I'm doing. Not writing, reading a little, and stressing about an outdoor project I really *really* need to get done before the sun goes nova later this week (okay, not really, just upwards of 95+ degrees F. for a few days and there is NO WAY I'm going to dig out and lay a 6x6 ft cobblestone patio in that!).

I don't know why I'm not writing other than to say I just don't feel like it, today, yesterday, or last weekend for that matter. I've got a couple of chapters of The Car Novel to print out and get feedback on (that's fairly difficult with the work schedule and lack of attention span before sleep takes over thing that's too often the case) and YAWT is still got my butt in a sling while dangling an end carrot that I can't see.

I guess I should be glad I'm reading, what with some five two dozen books to get through, but I still feel as though I'm plodding along through life and I don't like it one bit.

INK had a wonderful time with David Levine last evening, so much so I'm almost willing to bet everyone in the INK group probably wrote something afterward, or at least spent time thinking hard about writing. Man, his analogies make everything make sense. I'm purposely going to ask him to explain so much of the world I don't understand (like math maybe, er, or maybe not) over the next few months, or at least toss out a question here and there until he starts avoiding me which might happen because I mean really, how many analogies can one person have in their back pocket?

I'll bet he's got tons.

Anyway, I was just dazzled. He's a great speaker.

I didn't write anything today but I sure as heck-fire thought hard about it. Almost got the Craftsman tool cabinet I lust after with all my heart and soul like though. So close. Still can't justify the cost (plus the cost of all the tools I want to fill it with). Someday.

While writing at Fireside Coffee Lodge last night, I finally felt like I was falling back into The Car Novel. You know that feeling: Reconnecting with old family and friends, I mean with your characters, knowing in a heartbeat what some will say in response to anyone and any situation, and immersing yourself back into the world you've lovingly and painstakingly created for them.

In real life and in The Car Novel, the timing is right. The season has just begin. The weather is the same, the worries are the same, the challenges are the same. The frantic, time-line rush to get everything right feels the same for me as I'm editing the first half of my MS for the third time and for my characters as they are walking into a season unlike any they've ever known. Look out big block, side-draft pumping, blower-clad, paddle-shifting, open exhaust, triple chromed, street rod-lovin' world, here I go again!

Come July, I expect I'll be more Floyd, Cecil, Scratchy, and Novato than myself, a mental state that I expect will last deep into autumn. If anyone out there has got a burning question they've wanted to ask me, ask now or risk getting obsessive automotive trivia gibberish later.

The other morning I woke from a bad dream in which I had stupidly allowed an ex-coworker to drive my car and he totaled it.

Let me officially go on record here for those who may not know me well that in the past, in what I might in the future refer to as my ancient times, I occasionally allowed people to drive my vehicles. It usually had something to do with varying sums of money exchanging hands or promises to be forever in my debt (Yeah, if I had a dime for everything I heard that!). On the last occurrence however, back in the early '80's, I thought I really knew the guy and he wanted to take his girlfriend, a very nice young lady, to her senior prom in style. Promises of filling the gas tank before returning my car, pinkie swears that he'd not go over the speed limit, crank the stereo too loud, etc, etc, etc. Yeah, yeah, okay, here's the key, be careful, have fun, stop bothering me, yada, yada, yada.

( Sad tale of car woe behind cut )

This guy who I thought I knew turned out to be what I considered an asshole. Wasn't the first nor the last to cross my path. So when I dreamed that one of my ex-coworkers, a guy whom everyone at the time, my boss included, referred to as a royal pain in the ass, rolled my car off an embankment while I watched, I woke in a sweat (non-menopausal related). But after a minute, I felt good, almost happy even because while I dream about cars often, it's not often I dream of cars AND assholes at the same time and that only means one thing: The Car Novel, that just happens to contain a couple of asshole characters (because the car world is full of them -- trust me on this) isn't just calling to me; it's jumping up and down, waving it's arms, and hollering my name loud and clear. Oddly, I feel like I'm coming home and it feels good.

For as much as I complained a couple of days ago about stuffing my half-finished short story (YAWT - Yet Another Working Title) into the Dead Story file, I can't keep myself from thinking about how I might be able to fix it. I love it when my brain works like this because just as often, it doesn't.

In other news, my entry in the Writers of the Future contest - 2nd quarter, came back. While I didn't place anything with them, rejection doesn't really bother me (I learned to deal with it a lot growing up) and so, I rewarded myself by sending the story right back out to another market, to a publication that had good things to say to me last year in a personalized rejection on what I consider now a lesser story. Get back in that saddle, get back on that horse. A-yup, I live for this kind of thing. And while I was at it, I sent WotF an entry for their 3rd quarter contest. That makes six of my stories out there looking for homes, or hopefully at the very least, a word or two of guidance.

Next month, The Car Novel bubbles to the surface again. With the first half edited and the second half's outline nearly complete, I've got no reason to come up short on finishing it this year. Time to dig out my aloha shirts and my favorite Vans, dust off my car, squirt some Uber-Gloss on it, and get the oil changed (finally), and dive back into Cecil, Floyd, and Scratchy's world.

Now if only the weather outside would cooperate. Still having cold, wet, windy late February/early March-like days. Still experiencing near-freezing overnight temperatures. STILL have those geraniums camping out in the garage (under grow lights thank goodness).

Now I've gone and done it. Written myself into a corner all because I don't understand math and don't want to chain my short story characters to known laws of physics. Basically, I've written a dead story, a stillborn not completely formed, never to be.

Dang.

No doubt I'll try to find a way to salvage it, steer it away from the math and physics aspects so as to not insult anyone else with my utter and complete lack of understanding of either. Or I'll pluck out the two characters and drop them into something new, something different that doesn't involve the sciences. It's a shame really because after countless hours of science-y and physics-laden research including but not limited to Corona Discharges, Azimuths, Geomagnetic Pole Reversal, Statites, Spherules, Dyson Shells, Solar Sails, Telsa Coils, Magnetometer, Nanotechnologry, and Electromagnetic Ions, I thought I might have been onto something. I'll only be discouraged momentarily. No time to sit and whine about it.

But hey! We got that new and improved toilet installed.

It was both actually.

This morning I discovered:

1. I really didn't want to get up but...
2. Snow had been predicted here (across the river from Portland, OR) and...
3. By 10:30 a.m. it actually was snowing and...
4. It was 33 degrees at our house and...
5. Our sidewalks and driveway were nearly covered in ice.
6. I felt worse than I thought I would for not going to a newly created, local writer's group but it couldn't be helped, not so much because of the snow and ice but because...
7. After almost nine years of living here, our master bathroom toilet had rusted a bolt out of the bottom of the tank and was leaking icky water all over our upstairs flooring and...
8. Unbeknownst to me, Steve had been pining for a new, bigger toilet for years. Who knew? Some men want a bigger TV, mine wants a bigger commode.
9. Lowe's has bigger pots. Installation will cost more than the item, slightly less if I choose to keep the old toilet to perhaps, plant with petunias and mount in a highly visible spot in my front yard, but as tacky as that might look, it'd fit in nicely with...
10. A crude drawing of a penis someone (I suspect the new next-door rental house neighbors) drew with a bold, black marker on the development's community mailbox directly across the street overnight.

It's now 9-ish in the p.m. and almost everything is under control. Well as much under control as things could be considering that new toilet won't be here or installed until sometime next week. In the meantime, we have lots of towels.

It hailed and snowed here heavily between 6 and 8 p.m. sticking in the grass, melting on the streets. I should have spent the time writing but it was just so dang pretty and weird at the same time and I was too excited about it to concentrate. Tomorrow, writing, I promise, upon pain of death. YAWT will slide into home plate.

Another Tuesday, another evening spent writing and researching at Fireside Coffee Lodge...except tonight was different, better even (missed Grant and Theresa though). Tonight Kami joined us and it was Karindira's birthday. Double fun! Gosh, I love listening to the conversations of all these smart writers. I feel very privileged to know any of them.

I also may have stumbled upon an idea for the end of YAWT thanks again to Wikipedia. I don't think I'll be using as much physics with it as I worried I might need to being as the storyteller doesn't understand anything his accidental inventor friend is involved with; that being physics kinds of things. It's complicated and I only have myself to blame. But hey, I am learning stuff (provided everything written about Tesla coils, ions, corona discharge, and azimuth in Wikipedia is true). Who would have ever thought I'd want to willingly read anything about any of this stuff? All I can say is that my brain isn't leaking out of my ears just yet.

Oh, and please, someone smack me the next time I come up with an idiotic, out-of-the-blue phrase like "Anyway, I seeded the coils" and then make the decision that I absolutely, positively need to write an entire story around it when I have no idea what seeding the coils means.

In lieu of being able to spread more bark mulch or lay retaining block due to on and off hail today, the short story YAWT (Yet Another Working Title) received 250 more words, most of which I like. Beta reader Steve may not agree. Or he might laugh himself silly like he did last Thursday when he read the first half. Yes, it's true. There is a Santa Claus.

I worked like a dog all weekend but didn't give myself any biscuits. Not yet anyway.

- Moved a pallet and a half of retaining wall block.
- Spread 17 bags of 'color-enhanced' bark mulch.
- Transplanted a dozen plants including a six foot tree.
- Removed the once lovely, three foot juniper from Hell.
- Hauled four buckets of river rock from back yard to front yard.
- Endured, from the open garage next door, more of the renters' 14 year old son's bad drumming that I feared would never end. (Note to self: Good work on quelling initial desire to go on murderous rampage!)
- Missed two main meals and still managed somehow to gain five pounds.
- Found another hundred or so words for YAWT.

YAWT is up to 1300 words. I gots me some heavy thinking to do in order to tie up the loose ends. In a perfect world an ending will find it's way in there somewhere too. I really like the story so far. It's fun.

Saturday looks to be a perfect world here in my smidgen of the Pacific Northwest. In preparation for such, tomorrow will be all about heavy manual labor. Because I missed the boat on ordering bark mulch for this warm, dry weekend thanks to everyone and their mother doing just that thus allowing the only time left for delivery around 10 P.M Sunday evening (I kid, but just barely), I'll be using Friday to finish laying retaining wall block along the east and west side of our back yard. That will completely finish the project I started two years ago.

I've got a pallet of gray block coming, 126 blocks to be exact at 41 pounds each, plus half a pallet of cobblestone block, 113 blocks at 25 pounds each. You math-heads can work it out on how much I'll be lifting out of the front driveway, carrying down cement steps, and lugging between fifty and eighty feet into pre-position spots.

It'll be just like back when I used to lift weight for fun. Miss those arm muscles.

If the block gets here in early enough like they assured me would happen but frankly, I know better, and I get all the block moved out of the driveway and into the back yard quickly enough (so neighbor kids don't steal them), I then get to dig out the spots each block will rest in. That part is relatively easy and I don't mind doing it. But then there's the mini patio I'll be digging out and laying the cobblestone for so the trashcans and yard debris bin will stop sinking and we can finally keep our feet out of the mud. I'm really looking forward to that part...when it's finished. Ugh. Who likes to dig out wet clay-ish mud? At least I've got a place to dump the muck.

Finally, after I die or at the very least, shower and lie in bed wondering if Cirque du Soliel will hire me now that my arms will have stretched a few extra inches in length (that's got to be good for something, right?), Saturday when it's supposed to be 76 degrees F. and dry, I'll plant those red geraniums I finally got. And the Basket of Gold and a couple dwarf Pteris and another Rock Cress. I've got three landscape roses and a white flowering shrub I love but don't know the name of to move too, a three-foot potted lilac, a tall, orange-colored grass, and two nine-year old pots of tiger lilies to plant as well as a hanging basket to create.

Only then will I truly be ready to bark mulch the entire place.

But that will have to wait until the next dry weekend because not only will my arms and back need a break, I have YAWT and Working Title to finish. In the meantime, c'mon subconscious. I'll keep a pen and note pad handy. Get cracking on those story endings, 'k?

Five hundred words on YAWT (Yet Another Working Title) amid heavy editing. Plus I learned just enough about Corona Discharge to scare myself. The name sounds awful, like something you'd see soaking into the dirt out back of a border town tavern. But I assure you, it's not anything like that.

Crap. That image is now burned into my brain. I'm going to stop describing stuff now.

I'm halfway through two stories: Working Title and YAWT (Yet Another Working Title - pronounced 'yacht' here at landlocked ColeHaus Garden Inn & Resort) and last Friday I hit the proverbial wall. Not writer's block for if I truly suffered it you wouldn't be reading this. It's just a wall. My stories aren't talking to me or anyone else as far as I can tell. Usually that means they need to sit and percolate. But here's the thing: I don't feel I have time to wait. Push the stories and they may suck in the end. Don't push the stories . . . and they may still suck in the end if an end ever gets written.

C'mon Cole, be professional and all that. Work through it. Prove to yourself most of all that you do indeed have what it takes to become what you really want to be -- a cat juggler! No, no, a writer, an author, a wordy, oft-misunderstood rock star! A legend in your own mind!

Been there, done that.

It's April. I really need to remember to schedule things to see and places to go for myself during the month of April. April is my depression month. Not quite spring, too close to summer (summer being a time of year I'm not terribly fond of). Doesn't make one whit of sense but there it is.

Of course by stating aloud that April is depressing makes it so. I'm somewhat proud of myself for not saying it until just a minute ago even though I've felt off and somewhat emotionally paralyzed about nearly everything since, oh, let's see, April 1st.

But at least I know now, having made it so in my mind. Perhaps saying it is half the battle of getting through it. Maybe my stories sensed I was being moody and just maybe, since acknowledging it, they'll start talking to me again (and SOON dammit!).

Or maybe I just need a nap. Until May.

Fireside Coffee Lodge comes through again. Words poured from my fingers, knowledge seeped into my head.

500 more words on YAWT (Yet Another Working Title), the odd, hail-inspired, 'I have no idea what this means' piece I started last week. Still don't know what it means, what's it's about, or where it's going but I'm trying to use the Scholes' method of sweet wordy humor and dark, and I like what I've got so far.

As an added bonus, I'm trying to absorb as much physics as I can thanks to Wikipedia. Even more strange, I actually kind of understand some of it. Not bad for a middle-aged woman who doesn't get math, proof that if one's head is all filled with that icky stuff early on, there's no room for stuff you might want to learn later.

Or something like that. That's the story I'm currently sticking to. Of course, it is April 1st. I could be spouting anything today.

Earlier, I organized my writing file box, gathered my printed short stories into one place (I've got eight finished now), and mailed out two others to markets. One professional busy bee today, I am.

Today, more hail which oddly enough, means more writing. Whatever am I going to do when this neat-o weather finally gives in to spring and summer? Why, dig out that Car Novel and finish it finally, I say. Later, later I convince myself. THAT'LL be a project.

I think I might have that dead story whipped. Don't know for certain. I need Steve's input.

Last night we watched I Am Legend and although it's not very much like the story, as a movie standing alone, I liked most of it. Why we needed the male alpha zombie, who knows, but then again, why do we here in the states feel we need to elect a new one every four years? Whatever. We watched both endings. I kind of liked the one in which Will Smith kills himself better, the other one was way too cheesy for me, but both left me rolling my eyes. Again, whatever. I'll take hokey "The Omega Man" with Charlton Heston any day.

After Friday evening's INK critique on one of my latest short stories, Steve and I worked together Saturday sorting out the comments and suggestions. By noon, we had fixed the timing problem that plagued the piece since day one (past perfect vs. flashback stuff) and a few hours later, the piece was whipped into submission shape. Now to wait for the next Writers of the Future quarter opening (April 1st).

Next up was deconstruction of Working Title, a story with characters, a setting, and a situation that has a firm grasp of my attention even through all the missing parts. My problem was, still continues to be, that I don't know the ending. Part of that's due to not knowing the thoughts and reactions of the main character when years later, he's brought face to face with the guy who destroyed his dreams. Sounds simple enough but naturally, it's complicated.

We talked through some of the story line and Steve took notes for me. This will be the first story I've had to create an outline for but I think that might be because it's a BIG IDEA story with lots of people and setting stuff thrown in to make it deep and rich. If I can pull this off, it'll be the hardest thing I've ever written, even tougher to write than all those 50K, 60K, 75K NaNoWriMo novels I've hacked out over the years. But I'm not looking at this story, still untitled too btw, as the best thing I'll have ever written, just the toughest and a good learning tool. I've never outlined a short story before; the basics of each usually just flow from my head. This one's been different from day one, perhaps telling me I ought to outline more often. Or maybe I'm starting to think up BIG IDEA stories for the first time and if so, good. I think I'm good at creating believable characters and settings. I could always use some decent ideas and situations.

Today, another old, previously labeled 'dead file' story is being looked at. Too much emotion surrounding the critiques received on that one to talk about. In my eyes, it held such promise once and then, after a suggested rewrite or two or three or more, it all fell apart. Sometimes it might be good to leave something alone and move along to other things. That's been a tough lesson for me to learn although I think I'm getting better at letting my own voice have a say here and there.

We watched No Country for Old Men and The Mist last night. Odd, odd, odd. Naturally, The Mist being from a Stephen King piece (which I found excellent btw back in 1980 or so), sucked so bad it was enough to give a relatively stable person nightmares . . . from the directing and acting. No Country for Old Men was odd in that I like it, but knew that if as a written story it would be presented to our writing group, it would most likely be shredded. Choppy, confusing, almost incomplete seeming scenes, yet I found the dialog a joy and a hoot to listen to. Nothing like watching a Coen movie to make me feel creative and good about myself.

Why does odd weather fill my head with words? I wouldn't complain if they were good words, perhaps words in some kind of pleasing order. I should just jot them down and file them away (far, far away from human sight) until such time when I might rediscover them and deem them good and workable.

Composed during this afternoon's hailstorm:

"It came down hard as bullets knocking both bird and men from the skies, and if I hadn't stepped back, I surely would have been killed when Pete landed exactly where I had stood. He and his machine simultaneously released a heavy grunt when they hit, a harsh departure from the usual soft discharge of air and the snap-sling, snap-sling unbuckling of harness. Pete's head hung low resting against the safety bar, his long, stringy hair dripping with sweat while all around him dying birds dropped and bounced onto the asphalt.

A moment later, moving south across the lot, a storm of red solar bars rained from the skies and in its path, all things were charred to a blackened crisp."

Okay, tell me that's not weird. Better still, tell me what it means!

Can a person get jet lag driving south two hours from Seattle? I guess that depends on how fast one drives and I never divulge that information. After sleeping a long time last night and today, I still feel out of sorts. My brain is still in Seattle, still living on Friday night's dance floor. Love feeling that music.

I spent the weekend asking ill writer friends if they were feeling better. I was Zicam lady to some. Probably should have taken more of the stuff myself.

Norwescon was fun though I felt I was more of a pest than anything else. I ate little, drank less (shame on me), and averaged two hours of sleep per night. Never did try out room service, never did make it to Blade Runner, or to the last panel on Sunday. Didn't get any writing done but then again, wasn't planning on it. Compared to RadCon the previous month where everything went right, I felt my timing for all things Norwescon was off but I'm not making apologies, It happens. Time to internalize all I saw and heard. Time to hole up and finally take my writing seriously.

From this humble LJer, thank you Norwescon folks, and everyone I met and talked to there, both old and new. See you again next year.

I'll admit to feeling down a few hours ago. Nothing like being a little ornery and pulling the wings off a fairy to perk up the old spirits. Literally. Yeah, you can do that here. There's LOTS of them, and uh huh, it felt damn good.

Oh, and seeing forever unnamed persons dancing to "Baby's Got Back" helped too.

Now to leave you with a visual (as if pulling wings off things wasn't enough): Remember twenty-five, thirty years ago when girls/women used to dress like Pat Benatar? They're starting to dress like Amy Winehouse now. Be very frightened.

My reading is over. It went...eh, okay. I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be. Lots of walking hours before hand burned off the energy it would take to be nervous in front of a room full of anxious listeners. There were six listeners, then eight. It helped me feel better like it was an intimate gathering instead of the throngs of people, clammering, screaming, begging for more from me, an unknown at my very first reading. It would seem nearly everyone is reading a humor-laden story this year and here I am, reading about...something not humorous. The perfect world scenerio running in the back of my head of an editor or two or ten rushing the table and waging a bidding war on the spot for the chance to buy my story did not happen. Silly me. And now, the evening is over. Nothing left but listening to music, avoiding the creepy guys hanging around the computers, and wandering around looking yet trying not to appear to be looking.