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So, two Lost Days in a row. Two days I shall never get back. But I do feel considerably better this morning, so I have hope that today I will be writing again.

It occurs to me, as it often does, that I don't know many other writers who do this whole writer thing the way that I do it. I rarely attend conventions and book expos and such these days (who can afford it?) and have very little contact with other writers, except by phone and e-mail. I don't do workshops or anything of the sort. I do not dwell on "craft." I just write. That's it. I just write. I get up in the morning, and if it's a good day, well, then I write. I don't write about writing or about books the way that many writers I know do. I simply have no interest in doing so. I just write. I don't know what, if anything, this might mean. But sometimes it seems strange to me. Like all the other writers with whom I'm friends or with whom I'm acquainted are part of some club that I dropped out of years ago. And now, well, I just write.

This morning, near the end of the dreams, I was on a pier, or something like a pier, at the edge of a great body of brackish water, some sort of back-barrier lagoonal sort of thing. I could see the beach and the sea on my right, beyond a line of trees and underbrush growing on the barrier islands. There were a number of old pilings sticking up from the lagoon. And in the sky there was an enormous blue-grey bird. Enormous. Something as big, perhaps, as the azhdarchid pterosaur Quetzalcoatlus. Huge. And I realized it was some sort of giant egret, soaring overhead. And then I thought of Poppy, that I wished she were there to see it. That she would truly appreciate this great bird. It landed on one of the pilings. And I realised, then, that there was a second giant bird, also perched on a piling. I hadn't noticed it before. It was much nearer to me than the egret, and it looked more like a stork than anything else. A Marabou Stork, only many times larger. It turned its head and looked at me. Its eyes were surprisingly intelligent, and it looked angry. At this point, I was afraid of the two birds for the first time. Then the egret spread its wings and took off again, flapping away towards the sea. And I thought, Good. Now Poppy will see it.

"Pink Houses II: Invasion of the Ho Bags" was definitely the high point of yesterday. At least in terms of weird. Byron came over about six thirty. I'd accidentally taken two of something I should only have taken one of, so I was a little goofy. We went to The Vortex at L5P for dinner. Then we came back to the house and watched the "new" ep of Doctor Who, "Bad Wolf," which I thought was really particularly exquisite. I'm so going to miss Christopher Eccleston. Afterwards, Byron hung around awhile, and we talked, and slowly my head cleared. When he'd gone, Spooky and I watched The Day of the Triffids, an all-time favourite of mine, and that got me sleepy enough for bed. And that, kiddos, was yesterday.

I'm 89% certain that I'm going to have my hair dreadlocked in June.

Okay. I should have breakfast and coffee and wake up the platypus. Oh, and Tony Curtis turned 81 today.

Comments

( 21 comments — Have your say! )
laudre
Jun. 3rd, 2006 03:37 pm (UTC)
David Tennent is a great Doctor -- he's manic and rude and joyous in ways Eccleston isn't -- but I still miss Eccleston. I'm happy with Tennent as the Doctor; I just wish we'd had another year or two of Eccleston before they made the switch.
chris_walsh
Jun. 3rd, 2006 04:16 pm (UTC)
I am very, very bad...
...because when I read your lovely description of the dream birds, I read your thought at the end as Good. Now Poppy will eat it.

But Now Poppy will see it is a MUCH nicer sentiment.

Current Mood: Low-grade evil
sovay
Jun. 3rd, 2006 04:32 pm (UTC)
I don't do workshops or anything of the sort. I do not dwell on "craft." I just write. That's it. I just write.

I don't know how unusual that is. I've never attended a writing workshop; I never took classes in fiction or poetry. And I am not the only person in my group of friends-who-write who functions this way. It's how I work; it works for me. It works for some of them. As what you do works for you. And I personally am glad it does.

This morning, near the end of the dreams,

That's a lovely dream. Mine had me in an anachronistically turn-of-the-century brothel in San Francisco. I'm still not sure how that happened . . .
greygirlbeast
Jun. 3rd, 2006 06:42 pm (UTC)
I don't know how unusual that is.

Truthfully, neither do I. It's just that there seem to be an awful lot of writers who spend as much time talking about writing as they do writing. Which seems so strange to me.

Mine had me in an anachronistically turn-of-the-century brothel in San Francisco. I'm still not sure how that happened . . .

But what a nice place to find oneself!
sovay
Jun. 3rd, 2006 07:30 pm (UTC)
But what a nice place to find oneself!

So. I try to record dreams with particularly vivid imagery or coherent storylines, sometimes in hopes that they'll find their way into stories (as occasionally happens), sometimes just because I don't want to forget them. This is some of that dream, which I wrote down this morning:

This wasn't the late nineteenth century, because no upstairs room in any Victorian brothel I've ever read about had a bunk bed whose frame was ornate black iron and red velvet on the walls, but she curled on her side on the lower bunk and I don't think the real time mattered that much. On the nearest stretch of floor, one of her girls had been showing me and another customer, if we were customers, if we were not friends or visitors, I can't remember that part, how her fishnet stockings were so intricately knotted as to create patterns like scales and calligraphy when she pulled them on. She laughed and threw me a pair of stockings as she left, tugging the other woman playfully out of the room. There should be gas-lamps high on the walls, over the bureau and the antique chairs, the oval-framed photographs in sepia and the full-color snapshots that don't even make a pretense of illusion, but the sconces hold electric light and the whole room swims in reflected reddish shadow: there is a house in New Orleans . . . She is small, fair-haired, in the buttoned boots and gartered stockings that her anachronism demands, even if her fingernails are painted pearlescent and she has black bead-chains twined through her chignoned hair. No makeup, which is somehow stranger than the tattoos she wears on each shoulder: an grayscale Escher knot on the left, that unravels out of three dimensions if looked at for too long, and some teal-blue ripples on the right that suggest the sea. "You don't have to keep that robe on," she says, and because it's a dream, I hadn't noticed: but I am wearing the same ancient, unraveling bathrobe I keep at home. "This is a whorehouse, not a sleepover party," although her slow smile suggests that if I want to pretend otherwise, she could manage with no effort at all. She opens and closes her hand idly as she speaks, as though she could play this haze and lamplight like a stringed instrument; but her fingers move as bonelessly as anemones, so soft and delicately veined that in that moment I cannot imagine them engaged in any act more carnal than a slow drift in underwater currents. This doesn't register as supernatural or even unusual; I watch this sea-play of her fingers, mesmerized, while she smiles. Then she rolls over and up onto her elbows, and her lips brush very smoothly against mine.
greygirlbeast
Jun. 3rd, 2006 09:12 pm (UTC)
"Mrs. Blaylock... are you making a pass at me?"

Um...sorry. I couldn't resist.

That's very gorgeous.

Really.
sovay
Jun. 4th, 2006 12:45 am (UTC)
"Mrs. Blaylock... are you making a pass at me?"

*snerk*

That's very gorgeous.

Thank you. I'm afraid all credit goes to my subconscious, though.
chris_walsh
Jun. 4th, 2006 05:42 am (UTC)
*bows in grace and gratitude* (seems an appropriate phrase for this weekend)

Lovely. Thank you for remembering and preserving this.
cucumberseed
Jun. 3rd, 2006 05:03 pm (UTC)
I don't do workshops or anything of the sort. I do not dwell on "craft."

I'm not quite convinced these things are much more than social activities for the writers themselves.

It was a cold morning for my imagination until I read about your dream. Thanks.
greygirlbeast
Jun. 3rd, 2006 06:40 pm (UTC)
I'm not quite convinced these things are much more than social activities for the writers themselves.


I do suspect that's part of it.

It was a cold morning for my imagination until I read about your dream. Thanks.

You're welcome.
corucia
Jun. 3rd, 2006 07:03 pm (UTC)
Here's something interesting:

http://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/2006-06/osu-bbi060106.php

It describes evidence for a very large crater under the Antarctic ice, that the researchers tentatively date to the time of the Permian-Triassic extinction.
greygirlbeast
Jun. 4th, 2006 04:15 am (UTC)
It describes evidence for a very large crater under the Antarctic ice, that the researchers tentatively date to the time of the Permian-Triassic extinction.


Yep. I'm keeping my eye on this one.
styggian
Jun. 4th, 2006 04:07 am (UTC)
I thought he was the perfect Dr. Who.
Do you know why he was replaced?
greygirlbeast
Jun. 4th, 2006 04:13 am (UTC)
Do you know why he was replaced?

I believe he only agreed to just the one season.
styggian
Jun. 4th, 2006 04:33 am (UTC)
That's a shame.
They had me for a couple minutes last night with Rose.
I also cheered at the end.
mockingbirdgrrl
Jun. 4th, 2006 07:32 am (UTC)
hooray for the dreads
every time i almost have the courage to do it, i shave my head again. :(

if you do it, may i place an oh, so humble request for pictures?
pierced_tinks
Jun. 4th, 2006 07:24 pm (UTC)
heh heh dreadlocks are the way forward!

i just found ur journal on here. i been a fan of ur work since a girlfirend made me read silk about three years ago. so thank u. u write some of the most wonderful books i have ever read!
activistgirl
Jun. 4th, 2006 08:28 pm (UTC)
Re: Dreds
Wait, so can you actually go and "get them done"? If so where? I've wanted them for a long time but I was afraid to do them myself because I had seen how my friend's dreds had turned out when they did them themselves. I had kind of asked around to people who braid hair and they all though mine would be too fine to hold them (which is obviously not true).
humglum
Jun. 5th, 2006 03:27 am (UTC)
Re: Dreds


I'm going to do them for her. http://www.knottyboy.com/ has good instructions. I bought some of their Dread Wax today and had really nice results with the 3 or 4 dreads I did in my own hair (I intend to do my whole head). I think the key is patience and the knowledge that you really have to take care of them. I know I'm going to have to do a lot of waxing and twisting daily.

The Knotty Boy photo gallery is pretty diverse, in the quality of dreads people managed to create using their products. I have to wonder how some of the people did what they did, given thst there are very explicit instructions provided...

Oh, and the wax is nice. Smells like bees wax (which is mostly what it is), and is solid enough to get good control over stray bits and hold everything together.
activistgirl
Jun. 6th, 2006 12:59 am (UTC)
Re: Dreds
Wow! That's and awesome site! Thank you! My friend's looked like the kid in the gallery titled "self made"-you can see why I am a little scared!
humglum
Jun. 6th, 2006 05:17 am (UTC)
Re: Dreds


Uh. yeah. Looks like her took some dread wax and applied it to random chunks of hair and sort of smooshed them around a bit.

Sheesh. Dreads take work, which is why I still only have 4.
Tomorrow will not entail driving to the Apple Store, so I will have time and energy for making many more, I hope.
( 21 comments — Have your say! )