Go

So I've been working on my novel. I know, right!? Finally! And this is where I start blogging again so I can blather about nonsensical shit for fifteen minutes or so while my brain reboots. I am about 30,000 words in, or about a third way through the plot. I'm not exactly sure because I'm halfway between a pantster and a plotter.  (Those are writing terms. Impressive huh? It's like I know what I'm doing!) Like I've got most of the story living in my head, where it's been living for about five years and I tend to write when a certain scene or dialog just grabs me.  That's the pantster part, aka by the seat of your pants.  But I'm too anal retentive in real life to not go over accurate details (thank you google) and perfect timelines (a plotter specialty) and stare at hastily drawn maps, write out notes, etc. etc.  So the bottom line is... I write slowly.  I'm trying to get faster.  I'm trying to write every day.  I'm trying to separate writing time and editing time. I'm doing all that shit. 

Oh, but did I mention how we had a water leak and now we're renovating much of the bottom floor of our house? No?  Yeah, there's that.  Oh, and a whole bunch of other stuff happened because it's been like two years since I've really maintained this blog. Anywho, moving on.

But... I think the biggest news that has happened in the last two years is that the fricking voices in my head are now MANAGED!  Meditation has made such a difference.  Any breaks or journeys or to be continues it took to get to this point in my life and this state of being have been totally worth it.

Fricking hippie.            

Love always,

               - wg  


There have been the most wonderful metaphors popping up in music lately. Just lovely turns of phrases. And it's not always obvious, you have to listen closely and they come up in unexpected places. But I love when a sad idea or theme is rendered beautiful through its medium. You can take the broken and remake it in those moments. It doesn't change the actions or tragedy behind it but it both elevates and grounds the sorrow so that it is breathable.


I never understand why people don't set zombies on fire. I mean, you got a whole mess of them trapped somewhere, fairly nonflammable, and people try to pick them off one by one. Roast them! They can only keep moving if they have connective tissue left. Of course, I also don't understand why zombies seem more well-preserved than the average corpse. There is a standard decomposition rate after all, and these things are exposed to the elements. A body can go from freshly dead to a skeleton in the space of a year if left out in the open. I figure the first few years of a zombie apocalypse should be hell but then there should be improvement. Like an arc on a graph, there's the initial upswing of mass zombie infection and then eventually a decline as all those zombies fall apart. Hello, science? But I also wonder why, when survivors are raiding old stores for food and supplies, why no one picks up some ammonia and bleach. You could make hydrochloric acid bombs! Lob them at corpses from afar. Or pick up some lye. Start dissolving those pesky zombies right out of existence. I mean, really people, use your head.

And now I've probably been tagged by the government because I looked up "how to dissolve people with acid".


And then bugs flew at my face

Lately insects of varied flying ability have been swooping into my face for unknown reasons.  They have done so with forceful persistence and periodic consistency.  This is not an affliction I've been burdened with in the past.  Like,  you know that brother of a friend of your cousin's who everyone says attracts mosquitoes like a zapper so you can never invite him camping.  I cannot for the life of me think why my face is suddenly so appealing to bugs.  I've gotten hit in the cheek, the forehead, my neck, several times!  I've narrowly avoided swatting them down my shirt.  Because who wants a moth in their bra?  (You know that's going to smear.)  No one else in my family seems to be experiencing the love dives of gnats besides me.  It's utterly baffling.  And kind of creepy.  I have been taking a meditation class for the last few months and the only thing I can think of is that my chakras are now so blazing bright that I am like a beacon in the dark for small winged creatures. 

So just in case you were wondering what the downside to enlightenment is... it's learn to keep your mouth closed or you might inhale a moth.                     - wg


"Ignore the bells and pings. You are not Pavlov nor his dogs."

I wrote this as a note to myself. I forget for what exactly, clearly I was irritated, probably something distracting me from the task at hand.  But now I feel this should be emblazoned on a t-shirt and/or needs to be the mantra of my life.  Sadly, my first thought was to put it on facebook or twitter, it is so utterly twitterable, and I wanted to remember it and share it and nod sagely at it, but that is just feeding the chimes.  Then it occurred to me that I could put it up specifically and with intention on where the bell tolls... except I really don't hold truck with the younger gen's notion of doing things, big and small, "ironically".

Call me old-fashioned but I think we should stumble ignorantly and spectacularly into our irony, the way it was meant to be. Flames shooting from our tresses, ashes on our shoulders.   

Now give me a treat.


Control Alt Delete

Massive writer's block.  Just stymied.  Or I've got too much floating in my brain and I can't organize it.  But I did decide to shut off my syndication feed.  I'd rather throw my words out into the black emptiness and see if they coagulate into something more defined.  Let the remnants of gravity and cosmic attraction mass elements together.  Besides there are too many audiences in the public eye with the potential to be offended. I.e. I don't feel like I can talk about what I want to talk about. And I haven't felt that way for a long time.  

(Except to those who I know will come find me. You know who you are.) 

I have been told that I keep myself busy, so busy that I avoid the things I really need to do.  And I do do that sometimes.  But that is not always the reason.  Sometimes I'm just stumbling around looking for the path.

A writer once told me that the way she got through her first novel was to take felt tip pen markers and write on big sheets of paper, which she hung all over her walls.  That is the only way she could get started.  If I could start with something that visceral I would.  I suppose that is why I flounder around doing other creative tasks; a hope for a trigger point, for flow.  I constantly feel writing in my gut.  But it keeps getting stopped up, clogged in my throat before it gets to or out of my head.

At least that's what it feels like.  Here you go darkness.


Reading Makes a Good Life

We installed a Little Free Library in our front yard!  I fell in love with this program when I heard about it.  I asked for the library for my birthday.  I guess we could have built our own; there are some crazy cool libraries out there. But I just don't trust my rainproofing skills.  Plus, it's so pretty!

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I distributed flyers around the neighborhood and only had one person look at me like I was crazy.  But not for the library, just for handing out flyers.  I mean, we do get a lot of flyers in our neighborhood so I kind of get it.  But I'm not all THAT suspicious looking!  (Although, I'm not a professional flyer hander-outer so perhaps I was breaking flyer etiquette somehow. Apologies, good neighbors.)

Anywho, we've already had a few visitors and some donations!  The kid's books are very popular.  Must get more.  (Or make Chance clean through his bookshelf.  He'll love that!)       - wg


This blog is not dead...

It's only been sleeping.  It's not like I didn't have anything to talk about, but I was sort of really tired of all I had to talk about.  You know?  But that's OK, it's time to wake up now.

We have been doing a major overhaul on our yard.  The problem with our yard is that our house is a hundred years old and the backyard has been ladscaped to death.  Literally.  There are spots where nothing would grow anymore.  I figured at some point treated wood had wreaked havoc with the soil.  And the last time previous owners had landscaped they had rendered everthing in shades of grey and brown and sort of woodland-like but reallly just kind of dead looking.  It was like a zombie forest back there, minus the moaning.  We also had either a ton of shade or the withering glare of too much sun.  So let me introduce you to our new artificial lawn!  (the crowd roars)

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I'm horrible about before and after pictures but I'm GREAT at right in the middle pictures!  This is our new wonderful lawn, and behind it is a patch of nothing-will-grow dirt, and our ugly cement pad.  Why am I so excited about plastic grass?  Because IT IS AWESOME!  So much nicer than the roll out hurt-your-butt-when-you-sat-on-it turf carpet that I remember fed-up grown ups used in the 80s.  And you know, this is California and we're in a drought again.  And ALSO, most importantly, this...

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That patch was previously covered with flagstone.  No child could lie there and play with Legos.  Seeing Chance on the lawn was worth the purchase right there!  We also had the cement pad stained and it looks a million times better.  To the point of, people keep asking us when we put in the concrete!  (Le sigh, it's been there. It was just blaaaaaand.)

See the offending flagstone, accesory to ants. My dad is happy to take that off my hands, btw.

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We've also been working on a million small projects while the garderners are transforming the space into a wonderland.  Keen wants an outdoor kitchen so he painted an old picnic table and added sheet metal on top to created a prep table. 

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I've been painting a metal table set and a bunch of other outdoor items.  And because it's me it's totally bright colored.

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We're not done with everything yet, but we're getting there.  To be continued!

            - the weirdgirl