Wasn’t it Thursday just a couple of days ago? For such a long month crammed full of Mondays, the Thursdays have been really close together.
I get to write a fight for Fun Project tonight!
Unlike guns—which I always get wrong in some obvious detail that means the shooter would get knocked on her rear or need three Marines to help him fire my choice of caliber*— my fights are often good enough to suit My Friend the Martial Artist Boxer, who is kind enough to point out where my characters might be defying the laws of physics and probability.
Writing fights—physical, verbal, etc.—is theraputic. The thing to remember (anyone know who said this first? I’ve lost the quote) is that it hurts to get hit and it hurts to be hit. You might be able to ignore the pain during the fight, but you’ll have to pay up eventually.
Even if you’re Batman.
And isn’t it interesting—and perfectly reasonable—that Batman pays in broken ribs and Superman pays in emotional angst?
I just spent twenty minutes reading a few chapters of Beezus and Ramona to my seven-year old . . . and twenty more telling her stories about how horrible my sister and I were as children.
She’s planning on asking my mother for more stories, which are probably going to include one or two I forgot on purpose.
Thanksgiving is going to be interesting.
Thank you to all veterans and present military and civilian support staff for your service.
And thank you also to all those who have worked and are working to keep this country worth fighting for.
I’m halfway through re-reading A Girl and Her Fed, which I’m doing ten minutes each morning as an incentive to get my morning writing done.
It’s brilliant and funny and weird and political. The dialogue rocks—while I like the redone art, it’s the story that kept me reading the first time. And the details are cool— the Latin on the Global Services Administration logo says, “If we told you, we’d have to kill you.”
I want to be in Benjamin Franklin’s Undead Pixie Army!
Only, you know, not today. I got stuff to do.
Like finish that fight scene.
*That last one’s a true story—caliber and diameter aren’t interchangeable (it was a typo). I don’t know what it is with me and guns. I don’t dislike them, although I will believe in the strictest control measures until human beings stop using guns in place of brains, earned respect, or the hard way. I just screw ’em up.