Weekend Writing Warriors: Nanowrimo Sunday #4

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!

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One more week of Nanowrimo to go. If my writing hand and eyesight hold up, I think I’ll finish my 50,000 on time. It may not be a complete story, but the bare bones will be there.

And also a couple of Rosebuds—named after the Big Oops in Citizen Kane*— which is what you get when you’re too busy getting words down to pay attention to the continuity fairy, who has been trying to tell you that the great scene you just wrote can’t exist in the same story as the great scene you wrote two days ago, unless two of your characters are mutants and another has a Bag of All Holding with a (plot) hole in the bottom through which all those clues and handguns are apparently falling.

But I’m pretty sure these next eight are okay . . . at least from a continuity standpoint.

 Skull cross section

There are times when I wish I had a one or two predator traits—times when I’d swap flight, buoyancy and brains for quick healing and a concrete skull. Like now.

I opened my eyes, squeezed them shut, breathed carefully for a few seconds, and sat up.  I immediately regretted it; my head hurt like throbbing, nauseated hell.

“You’re awake,” a voice said. “Good.”

“Lies,” I said.  I reached back and touched the back of my head and regretted doing that, too.

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 I couldn’t think of what to write next and I couldn’t figure out how to introduce my hero to the Big Bad.

So I hit him over the head with something hard . . . and ended up solving both problems.

Who knew?

I’ll try to visit everyone today, but if I’m a little late, please forgive me. I have a wordmeter to feed!

 

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*In the movie, a reporter tries to figure out why the dying word of Charles Foster Kane, a wealthy newspaper magnate, was “Rosebud”.  But the movie also makes a point of saying that Kane died completely alone in his otherwise empty mansion.  So how did anyone know what his last word was?  Unlike Orson Welles, I’m not talented enough to get away with this kind of thing.

 

Random Thursday: Purple Skies, Baby Owls, and Lady Chatterly’s Leprechaun

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

Got felled with one of my blinding (and I mean that literally) migraines yesterday, and so spent the day in a nice quiet room sleeping off my meds and sipping nice, hot mugs of caffeine.

Possibly at the same time.  I don’t really remember.

But I’m feeling better today—a little dizzy, but that’s nothing new—and also very thankful for friends who have sent me so much stuff this month that I already had this post pretty much pre-assembled by the time I could bear to look at a screen again.

Thanks, guys!

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Knitbats!

Remember my Purple Elephant rant from a couple years ago?

Looks like I may have to break out the %&#$ double-pointed needles again.

Knitbats

This (these?) are Boo.

Boo’s pattern is on sale at the Mochimochi Land shop.

I don’t want to wrestle with a handful of small sticks for three hours
just trying to cast on, no matter how adoraboo
(ahem)
he/she/they is/are.

Maybe I should send the pattern to my friend Grace instead,
as a sort of self-serving holiday gift?

Gold Box

(Don’t tell her, Cha—let it be a surprise!)

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A Short Physics Poem

Roses are red.
Chromaticity’s wavy.
That’s why the sky isn’t purple:
It’s gravy.

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Catris

This is a good visual metaphor for how I’m piecemeal writing my Nanonovel this week . . .

catris

 . . . except with plot elements and werewolves and swanmanes instead of kitties.

And some of the blocks would be hissing at each other and/or pointing guns.

Or threatening to take each other’s P.I. licenses away.

Or scent marking the lower levels.

Never mind.

(Thanks again, caitlin!)

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Because Baby Owl

To misquote Robert A. Heinlein,

“Baby owls, like butterflies, need no excuse.”

Baby Owl

He actually said “little girls” instead of owls,
but in my experience, little girls seem to need a lot of excuses,
and tend to deliver them even before you’ve asked.

(Stolen from Paula’s FB feed—thanks, Paula!)

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Troll of the D’urbervilles

My friend Siobhan sent me the link to this video, with the subject heading:

“Guess I can’t give you any more crap about the wereduck thing.”

No, Vannie. No, you can’t.

This Post is a Fuggly Hack

I don’t have a Real Post™ today, because I lost my grip on the amount of time I’d planned to use to write something thoughtful and profound and ended up using all of it to scan images of the family for a school genealogy project due tomorrow; attempts to fix my printer’s sudden amnesia regarding our WiFi connection; and copying out Sunny’s math homework by hand, while squinting at a series of tiny, texted images sent by an angel of a fellow parent, whose child did NOT forget his math book yesterday.

The first of four pages.  And yes, the hand is supposed to have four fingers, though I'll admit that it does resemble a pinkie amputation, rather than the thumb-tuck i was going for.

The first of four pages.*

And then I had to finish up my wordcount, because if I want Thanksgiving off from Nanowrimo, I can’t start slacking now.

So instead of entertaining you with my quirks and eccentricities and the epic battle to keep our elderly cat as continent as possible—or at least incontinent in acceptable areas—here’s a link to  terrific article by Cory Doctorow, which was published in this month’s issue of LOCUS:

My theory is that the parts of our brains that keep track of other people and try to model them, the seats of our empathy, can be tricked into treating the adventures of imaginary people as though they were real. Even though your rational mind knows that imaginary people are inconsequential, the largely automatic, unconscious systems that organize information about the people around you in order to figure out what they’re likely to do — and that let you predict how they feel in given situations and sympathize with them — don’t differentiate between information about real people and imaginary people.

“Stories Are A Fuggly Hack” Cory Doctorow, LOCUS, November 2014, p.25

And while you’re reading that, I’ll be trying to get my printer to cough up those school project photos I scanned and/or hacking away at the fuggliest story I’ve written, to date.

Wordcount, ho!

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*And yes, the hand at the bottom is supposed to have four fingers, though I’ll admit it does resemble a pinkie amputation, rather than the thumb-tuck I was going for.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Nanowrimo Sunday #3

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!

_______________________

Yesterday was the halfway mark of this year’s National Novel Writing Month, and I managed to reach 25,000 words in the late afternoon and even managed a small head start on today’s count as well.

I remembered this week that our P.I. hero Tom actually has a few other things to worry about besides the continuing absence of his brother and the still unknown Big Bad sending werewolves to kill him in order to bring the aforementioned brother out of hiding.

Like making rent.

So here are eight sentences in which Tom ponders the insurance-fraud case Turner is currently working.  It involves a work-related injury claim, which is complicated by the claimant being a werewolf:

Hand Crutch

The guy in question wasn’t faking his injuries—a load of iron dropped in just the right way will do damage to a rhino—but he wasn’t helping them heal, either. Turner thought his knee was being held together by a silver pin; I thought maybe he was injecting the site with silver nitrate. Either way, he was collecting money he didn’t deserve because he could heal himself instantly—but if he was a human who’d sustained that much damage, he would still be collecting.

So, where was the crime?

I didn’t know. And if I reported him to the insurance company or the Regional Council, I’d bet they wouldn’t, either. There weren’t any human-based laws about refusing to use one’s healing ability and there weren’t a whole lot of laws on the Were side about stealing from human companies, either.

The one about not shitting where you eat was apparently more of a guideline, no matter what species you were.

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My original thought when I was pre-plotting (stop laughing—it does happen . . . once in a while) was to weave this case into the main storyline, because the motivations of the injured guy reflect everyone else’s.

If the main story takes over, as it’s threatening to do, I’ll make this bit part of a short story, maybe.

Meanwhile, it’s been good for ramping up my Nanoutput and for sussing out some of the legal whimsicalities of this world I’m trying to piece together.

I’ll try to visit everyone today, but if I’m a little late, please forgive me.  I have a wordmeter to feed!

Random Thursday: Random Accomplishments of Accomplished Accomplishing

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

Nanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonanonano . . .

Crap, that’s only one word.

Have a look at other people’s accomplishments (and one of mine in there, somewhere).

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Crochetgrounds!

Fiber artist Toshiko Horiuchi creates large, colorful, interactive installations and play environments out of yarn-based textiles.

In other words,
she crochets them.

By hand.

horiuchi Crochet Ground

It’s like the spiderwebs of Wonderland . . .

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Such a Time Saver!

(Thanks, honey!  Um . . . you don’t do this, do you? ‘Cause I noticed we’re out of hard root beer again?)

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 Nanopizza Zone

As part of my Nanowrimo output yesterday, I wrote a bit of dialogue spoken by a character that I can’t believe came out of my brain, except the thing is in my handwriting.

Then again, the POV character is a wereduck P.I., so I don’t have a lot of plausible deniability, here. . .

I investigated Joly’s Pizza personally, around lunchtime, and found Joly to be a dyed-in-the-metaphorical-wool Rhombeck supporter, for all he was human.

“He gave me my start-up money and got the health department off my back,” he said, busy scattering a double handful of dead crickets across a crust that had been spread with a greenish sauce I probably didn’t want to know more about.

The crickets looked good though.

“I figured I was making specialty pizzas for all my buddies, why not do it for a living?” he said.  “We can handle orders from carnivores, herbivores, insectivores, fruit-eaters,* even celiacs and those no-carb weirdos.  Some guy called up the other day and ordered for like twenty minutes, asking all these questions. Vegan ain’t a problem, I told him.  Organic ain’t a problem. Nut allergies ain’t a problem.  Raw food crusts ain’t a problem, if you don’t mind ordering a medium.  Dairy-free, gluten-free, garlic-free, low-salt—no problem.

“Then he asks for this tofu-pepperoni crap.  That, my friend, is a problem.” 

It’s also about 164 words.

I believe that’s what we call a priority shift.

Pizza!

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It’s Infinite on Both Sides

And flippin’ hilarious, too.

Amazing UniverseClick to check out More Abstruse Goose!

(Thanks, Watson!  Is it still a Captain Obvious moment if your audience doesn’t get it?)

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Whirled Beat II

Jonathan Carollo has a drum set.  But he doesn’t need one.

At all.

His father Dan  records Jonathan’s original compositions that can be purchased at Reverb!Nation.  If you buy them, a percentage (don’t know how much) of the money will go to the Half The Sky Foundation.

Pretty cool.

(Thanks, Dee!  You’re right—he’s giving the Piano Guys some competition!)

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*Sure, you and I know it’s “frugivore”, because we just looked it up, but Joly wouldn’t and the MC wouldn’t care.