Sewing: UFO Roundup

You know the term "UFO" in a crafting context, right? UnFinishedObjects?

I have several. Today, I feel motivated to finishing and/or tossing them. Or finish, evaluate, then toss. We'll see how I feel tomorrow. I suspect it's because I've been reading about Kanban and Personal Kanban--I want to get some items off my Doing list. Column. Whatever.

So I finished a skirt in dark-grayish-blue silk crepe, that I started months ago. Finished except for the final press, and then I'll have to wear it and see if it works at all. That's usually why something becomes a UFO--I baste it, try it on, and lose enthusiasm.

And I bound the waistband of that blue wool crepe skirt that I mentioned.

And I started hemming and binding the waist of a black cotton...er...see, it's got a zipper, so it seems like a skirt, but it's really lightweight, almost a voile, so it seems like a slip. I can no longer remember why I started it.  Whatever the reason, it'll be done soon.

After all of those are done and either on hangers or in the donate pile or in the trash, I'll start sewing the cooking coat that I cut out perhaps a year ago.

Except that I know that there's a half-finished skirt in lightweight black wool crepe around here somewhere, really cheap wool crepe that bought to test patterns, but I can't find it. And somewhere there's a drop-sleeved thing in light pink linen that's too big and long to be a shirt, too short to be a bathrobe, too unstructured to be a jacket, and too pretty to be a cooking coat. I suppose it could be a swimming cover-up if I ever ever swam.

Look! Sewing themed cat picture!

That is all.

Image: By Ron Galili. Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Pancakes and Fur Collars

Sunday.

I fried two kinds of chicken last night.

I just made Swedish pancakes.

I did eat some broccoli with the chicken. That makes it all OK, right?

It's raining out there.

I was going to finish making a skirt this weekend.

That's looking increasingly unlikely.

Oops. I was also going to plant the French grey shallots.

But the rain is an excuse for not doing that, right?

I've been thinking of learning how to make pot roast. But that wold be unhealthy.

Heh.

I bought more rhinestones. And a cool pin that looks sort of like a metallic Tribble.

That's a Maine Coon. The cat, that is. The one with the sort of Bugs-Bunny expression. If we get a cat again, I want it to be a Maine Coon.

I dug out the pieces of that skirt so far, and was startled to realize that it's made of wool crepe instead of denim. A person should really remember these things. It's wool crepe that I've had for years and years. It seemed like time to do something with it. I remember my thinking now that I have the (partial) skirt in hand.

I bought a couple of hundred yards of bias binding in assorted colors, and thirty yards of black twill tape, when we were in Portland. Because it's harder to find that stuff in Ashland. I'm hoping that the result will be that I knock off some skirts. I prefer bound hems.

While I was at it, I bought two more patterns for the Casual Shirt Grail. The Casual Shirt Grail is the goal of a simple shirt that I can get from cutting table to wearing in roughly three hours--and that I'm subsequently willing to wear.

I already have the Gored Skirt Grail that I can make that fast--assuming that I didn't spoil the pattern last time I re-traced it. It was a patchwork of cut pieces and masking tape from all the alterations. I'm pretty sure I traced exactly precisely the pattern from the last successful one that I made, but with the tape giving way and pieces of pieces falling on the floor, and with Version I and Version II and Version III floating around, it's hard to tell for sure.

The Casual Shirt Grail requires (1) no collar, because I can't finish a shirt with a collar, even a simple collar without a stand, in three hours. And (2) not-set-in sleeves, because I have yet to solve my tilted shoulder problem, plus set-in sleeves are precise enough that I suspect I'd be doing a little tweaking with each different fabric. And (3) no required buttons. When this pattern is right, I want to be able to cut and sew it without even needing to try it on.

The goal (Huh. This post is starting to narrow down to a topic here) is to have a reasonably flattering shirt pattern that's so easy that I have spare attention for embellishments. Piping, binding, contrasting stitched-down facing, beading, embroidery, decorative buttons--not, I promise, all on the same garment.

I'm looking at a vintage 1950's swing coat with a gorgeous fur collar and wondering if making something with really high-quality fake fur would end with people spitting on me and throwing red paint at me. I guess the more obviously fake the fur is, the less likely that would be to happen, but I want things that look more convincingly first-half-of-the-twentieth-century.

Meanwhile, I do have a really nice-looking swing coat pattern.

That is all.

Image: By Takashi Hososhima. Wikimedia Commons

SOTD: Byredo Pulp, or Engulfed in Fruit

Kitty! No, he has nothing at all to do with the post.

After twenty-four hours, and more than one washing, the Salome on my arm was still distinct and gorgeous. I probably could have just left it there and considered myself perfumed for the day.

But I wanted to put on something else, while this uncharacteristic rebirth of perfume interest is going on. I considered Byredo Blanche, as a sort of amusing contrast, but it occurs to me that I don't see Blanche as merely shy, but distinctly opinionated about her quiet soapy cleanliness. I think that there would be squabbling, or perhaps silent treatment, if they had to share the same person.

So I dug out my decant of Byredo Pulp instead. A big squashy heap of slightly overripe fruit seems like an affable companion to Salome. And it was.

But it was big. Big. BIG. One spray on the back of my neck (for wafts) and one on my other arm (for direct-sniff updates) and I was drowning in that heap of fruit. I ended up doing the cooking-oil-wash on my arm, and washing the back of my neck, to get it down to only a little too much. I'm going to decant this to a roller, for maximum control. Or maybe mix one drop into a gallon of unscented body cream. Or something.

I don't think that I used to have this problem with Pulp. Is it a summer versus winter thing? Or the long interval of little perfume wearing?

Odd.

Also, that kitty is staring at me.

That is all.

Image: By Heikki Siltala-catza. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Lush Godiva Solid Shampoo

It was raining today, and I was running around here and there. And I kept wondering, "Why do I smell jasmine? I'm not wearing perfume. Is it her? No, it's over here, too. Is it him? Why do I smell jasmine? Why do I smell jasmine? WHAT'S GOING ON?!"

Oh.

Two days ago, I washed my hair with a Godiva shampoo bar. Today, the occasional raindrop falling on my hair was waking up the jasmine bomb that is Godiva, and creating a cloud of jasmine around my head.

It's a perfectly nice jasmine--not too dirty, not too clean. But there is a LOT OF IT, enough to make me write in ALL CAPS.

And it's not just launching its attacks from my head. After washing my hair, I noticed that a cloud of jasmine was emerging from my bathroom and marching down the hall, so I wrapped the shampoo bar in a washcloth, to at least confine the scent to the room. It didn't work. So I shut the door. It didn't work. I finally put the shampoo bar in a zip-top plastic bag and zipped it. That finally shrank the cloud to within the boundaries of the bathroom.

I like this shampoo bar. It leaves my hair well behaved, even when I just wash my hair and fall into bed.

The scent is very pleasant.

BUT THERE'S A LITTLE TOO MUCH OF IT.

That is all.

Image: By Joe Parks. Wikimedia Commons.

Edited to add OBSource: I paid money for the Godiva shampoo bars.

NaNoWriMo: Slackery

Well, dang.

I fell off the NaNoWriMo wagon, but I thought, "OK, at least I'm on track for NaBloPoMo."

Then I didn't post yesterday.

Dang.

Guess I'd better get back on that wagon. Can I write nine thousand words today?

Cat Picture: By Aria Belli. Wikimedia Commons.

Perfume: First Sniff: Tom Ford Jardin Noir Ombre de Hyacinth

Eh.

When I want hyacinth, I’ll wear Serge Lutens Bas de Soie instead.

When I want expensive soap, I’ll wear Balmain Ivoire instead.

When I want New Barbie Doll/Liddle Kiddle, I’ll wear Jo Malone French Lime Blossom instead.

Tom Ford Jardin Noir Ombre de Hyacinth is Perfectly Nice. At about a third of the price, I would call it surprisingly good. As it is,  I just call it surprisingly expensive.

That is all.

Oh, except for the cat picture:

(Fragrance source: purchased decant.)

(I really must start reviewing an occasional scent that’s less than three years old.)

Image 1: Wikimedia Commons.

Image 2: By carterse. Wikimedia Comons.

Image 3: By Dinagoldstein. Wikimedia Commons

Cat picture: By Atlantiscats. Wikimedia Commons.

Blogging: Freebie Phobia

This blog is small. Tiny. Amateur. Part of its amateur nature is the fact that I don’t initiate relationships with perfume brands, and when a brand reaches out, I do a lousy (perhaps better phrased as “nonexistent”) job of maintaining that relationship. I am blogging as a normal consumer, when I’m not blogging as a chicken glutton.

Why am I raising this subject? Because I’m about to wear some samples that I did receive from a brand representative. For free. Two, maybe three, years ago, a nice person (See how I don’t remember the name? See how bad I am at these relationships?) from PureDistance offered me a bottle, and I declined but said that I’d be delighted to receive ordinary 1ml samples. Only after that did I realize that, oops, PureDistance’s “ordinary” samples are a pretty fancy production, costing a non-trivial bit of money. I felt so guilty that…I never reviewed them.

No, there is no semblance of logic there. But the history was in my thoughts as I was going through my “interesting samples I’ve never tried” drawer and ran across the fancy PureDistance samples. Which I will now sniff. And, if words come to mind, review. Now that they’re no longer new releases and nobody cares.

You see, again, why I am not a bigger blog? There are plenty of other reasons, including my frequent digressions on chicken skin and cucurbits, but this is part of it.

I don’t know why I’m not comfortable with a free-samples relationship for me, when my reaction to it for every other perfume blogger is, “Well, of course. How else could they possibly review all those perfumes without going bankrupt?”. Now, other perfume bloggers are free of Postal Regulation Phobia, which is why free bottles are just fine for them (because they can give them away again, the way they do) and not for me. But it doesn’t explain my issue with samples.

When I analyze all the details, I can only conclude that I trust those bloggers not to be influenced by freebies, while I don’t trust me. I think I should be offended at my opinion of myself.

Meanwhile, I’m debating the fifty dollars for a sample pack from Thorn & Bloom. Whee!

(Catcatcat picture.)

Image: By juanedc. Wikimedia Commons.

Perfume: Words and winter and stuff

So, I was going to sniff a perfume and write about it. I rummaged through the Largeish Decants drawer, sprayed on Vetiver Tonka, and waited for words to come.

Um.

"Medicinal."

That's all I've got.

This happens. The lack of words. Comes and goes. It may be part of the season change; it's hard to tell.

Now, Vetiver Tonka has never been one of my favorite perfumes. I don't adore it and I don't hate it. That could be part of the issue.

And I suspect that it's a late-winter perfume for me, rather than early winter. Right now, I'm craving oily, animalic, smokey perfumes. I seem to recall that as winter drags on into spring, I crave scents to sweep out and sanitize all that fur and sweat and smoke. So I'll return to Vetiver Tonka in, oh, March.

Meanwhile, what are the sweaty things that I'm seeking?

Caron Alpona has that smell of freshly-bathed cat, with oranges. Serge Lutens Fumerie Turque is lions prowling around the campfire. Robert Piguet Bandit, the modern version, is musky, if far too polite, rather like a tiger got an MBA and turned up in a double-breasted suit. Papillon Salome, now, that's a a fine batch of skankiness. Daim Blonde is  a very clean nest of white fur. I suspect that I'd like to bury myself in Aftelier Cepes & Tuberose, but the bottle is too tiny for truly enthusiastic drizzling. Oh, and the thought of Tom Ford Velvet Gardenia, and MCMC Kept are appealing.

Aside from the honey in Kept, I'm not, it seems craving the food fragrances. No syrup for me yet. Not even any tea; the thought of Tea for Two does nothing for me. When I check blog posts from previous years, this appears to be off kilter; a few years ago, I was enthusing about Ayala Moriel Guilt.

Hmm.

Image: By Tomitheos. Wikimedia Commons.

NaNoWriMo: Again the confusion

Day two and strategy three for NaNoWriMo: I went back to fiction. Whee!

3,566 words.

And, cat picture.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

NaNoWriMo: Starting

So, I started NaNoWriMo. Not a novel; I'm working on that unnamed nonfiction idea that I had a while ago. I got 1725 words in, or fifty-eight above quota. But it's not going to work. Not for NaNoWriMo, that is. The book is intended to be a series of essays, and I failed to consider the amount of mental fermentation they would require.

So I think that the goal of this year's NaNoWriMo is going to be: Write 1667 words, on a single topic,  one that isn't directly dependent on the context of my blog, every day. On whatever. An essay today. A really long perfume review tomorrow. That sort of thing.  Just use it to form a writing habit.

Maybe.

We'll see.

Meanwhile, cat picture!

Image: By nsleep6. Wikimedia Commons

Rambling: Sunday Randomness

No, the picture has no significance whatsoever.

I still don't understand Twitter.

I fried two kinds of chicken. Actually, three. (Italian breadcrumb chicken fingers, panko crumb chicken fingers, and wings.)

I'm averting my eyes from the work week.

I may be catching a cold.

I'm watching Wonderfalls. It's a really good TV series. Sad that it didn't last longer.

The novel that I'm threatening to write just got darker, a decision that un-stalls several things but moves it away from the cookies-and-balloons novel, with friendly mild conflict between well-meaning people, that I was imagining. It's not as if I'm a cookies-and-balloons writer anyway, though.

I just bought several yards of toweling (the kind for nice dishtowels, not terrycloth) to make napkins, an apron, and some harvest bags.

I should fold some laundry. But I don't wanna.

I also made cookies. This is not the healthy nutrition weekend.

The current Wonderfalls episode is talking about cheese. You'd think I couldn't get hungry any more today.

Well, cheese and the Devil. Not directly linked or anything.

Y'know, I really should like Twitter.  It's short-format, immediate-feedback writing, and I used to like that in online roleplaying games.

The second picture has no significance either. I'm just adding free-association photos to the free-association babbling.

The third one looks like he thinks he's significant, right? Those bug eyes and all.

We were going to go harvest the pumpkins from the farm this weekend. It didn't happen. Maybe tomorrow.

I did harvest the melons. The ones we grew on the Farm. They're occupying an entire refrigerator shelf. I should eat them. Or give them away. Or reject them. The first one we ate was merely adequate.

I should plant the shallots. That was supposed to happen this weekend, too. Also the garlic. My garden plans are behind, because my knee got angry. I'm not quite sure what I did to it, but I think it was that Saturday when I tried really hard to get a shovel into really hard soil. It's getting better now. And the rain is coming soon.

Bug-eyed cat looks doubtful about something, doesn't he?

That might be all.

First Image: Wikimedia Commons
Second Image: By Pluton76. Wikimedia Commons
Third Image: By Julia Volks. Wikimedia Commons.

Perfume: Another Take on Seasons

So, I've posted (here, here, here, here, here and here) about the effect that the seasons have on my fragrance tastes. Traditionally, the pattern has been that as day lengths shift after the solstice, I gradually lose interest in perfume, and then as we're past the curve and roaring into the next season, I get excited again. Well, that's how I remember the pattern; not all of those posts agree. This winter is a new twist--as we edge into the seasonal turn, my interest in perfume is climbing, not falling.

I want sweaty or dirty or syrupy perfumes. Right now, I'm having a strong craving for MCMC Kept. (I'm in Portland, where most of my perfume collection isn't.)  I'm also eager for the right occasion for my shiny new birthday bottle of Papillon Salome, which Now Smell This just gave 7 on the skank scale.

And I'm thinking that I really must get another bottle of Aftelier Cepes & Tuberose, because I don't want to run out someday.  And after reading EauMG's review of Thorn & Bloom Orange Blossom, I'm craving it without ever having smelled it.  (But Thorn & Bloom wants fifty dollars for samples. Meep! Also, meep!)  And I'm craving the freshly-bathed-soapy-cat smell of Caron Alpona.

Dirty perfumes. Mmm.

Image: By Dwight Sipler. Wikimedia Commons

Rambling: Blogging and Perfume Blogging and Writing and Stuff

So my perfume interest is perking up, after a long gap.

And I'm debating whether to try to be a real perfume blog...er...I was going to say "again", but has this ever been a "real" perfume blog? I suppose the question is whether to go back to being as much of a perfume blog as I was at my maximum level of perfume-bloggyness. Back when I tried to post my scent of the day, and knew some of what was new, and sometimes even reviewed an occasional scent that was new, and not only did the Review Roundup, but tried to update old Roundups with new reviews.

Oh, and I had cat pictures. (Look, cat picture!)

Should I do that again?

Not that I would ever stop posting about sewing or pumpkins or fried chicken or random ramblings. But I would once again have a default topic, a six-posts-out-of-ten topic.

It occurs to me that although I adore Henry Mitchell, I have never read Any Day, his book not-about-gardening. While I love Herman Herst, I don't know if I'd read a book, by him, not-about stamp collecting. I haven't read any of Judith Martin's non-etiquette books, and even though I've bought them, I haven't read most of Calvin Trillin's books not-about-food.

It appears that I equate a writer with a topic. My topic has tended to be perfume. I might like my topic to be fiction, but perhaps the solution to writing more fiction is not to write less of other things, but to write more of other things.

Maybe?

Stepping slightly away from me (me me me!) that leads me to consider the link between a writer and a topic. Why do I find myself wanting a writer to continue to write about the same topic? The first phrase that my head came up with when I asked that question was "in jokes." In jokes represent an ongoing relationship and a comfort with that relationship. I suppose that when a writer continues to write on the same topic, continues the same conversation, it feels like we're having that comfortable relationship. Whether there are jokes or not.

I read Linda Grant's The Thoughtful Dresser, where I met her mother as a subtopic, first, and then I went on to read her Remind Me Who I Am Again, about her mother, where I ran into clothes as a subtopic, and so it was like changing topics in a conversation with someone that I already knew. I suspect that I'm going to read all of her books that clearly involve clothes, before I move on to the ones that don't have that tie.

So it appears that when online, my primary topic is perfume. Well, and also complaints about my mother, but you probably can't build a blog community around that....

....can you?

You probably can.

But I'm going to stick with the perfume for now.

Image: By aall1. Wikimedia Commons

Rambling: Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, folks!

I collapse after evening gluttony, which followed morning gluttony, which followed Christmas eve gluttony. And I write. Maybe.

Except first, failing to say Enough is Enough, I eat a chicken finger with onion dip. And eat a Russian tea cookie. (Without onion dip. My dietary transgressions have limits.)

There are a lot of picture-free posts down below. So I added the feline yawn over to the left. Think of the cat as representing my brain. Complete with yawn and fuzz.

I just set up my sewing machine and my serger. I can leave them up for another week and a half until I get back to work. So I might make several of the six-gore skirt mentioned in the previous post. Or I might just sleep a lot.

I bought a pair of little green boots. These are further motivation for creating the mentioned skirts, because  little boots with a long skirt that hits the boot-top seem less "too young" than little boots with a short skirt.

We watched the Doctor Who Christmas special. The Doctor Who Christmas special seems to be my grown-up festive equivalent of The Grinch or Charlie Brown. Not that I don't still like those.

Lammily arrived. The Barbie substitute with human proportions, that Lammily? There she is, relaxing with her shoes off, communing with my favorite Christmas perfume. (Bois 1920 Sushi Imperiale.)  I was going to make her a tiny Santa hat, but I got lazy.  But she does look like she needs some winter clothes. I've been wondering if photocopy-enlarging the little pattern-piece outlines on a pattern envelope might produce a usable pattern.

It does seem a little odd that I want to make doll clothes. I made 'em a lot as a kid for an adventuring Skipper (back when she was flat-chested) who travelled with a dog and an excessively large wardrobe. Lammily reminds me of her. I have a gorgeous piece of corn-yellow silk georgette that I keep imagining making into a doll dress,  even though the lost length would probably make it unusable for a garment for me.

I think that is all.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Second Image: Me.

SOTD: Sonoma Scent Studio Yin and Ylang

This one isn't weird, either. But I like it. It's a comfort scent, both woody and floral, and with a sense of creamy chewy edibleness without any actual food scent. I keep wanting a little more of one note or another--a little more oak moss, or a little more sandalwood, or a little more of that edible vibe. I tend to assume that that stretching for a little more is a sign of a well-balanced scent, because surely if I had all I wanted of a note, I would soon be tired of it.

Want. I want De Bachmakov, too. My interest in perfume may be increasing again. That could be expensive.

Review Roundup: Now Smell This and Fragrantica and Cafleurebon. And surely someone else has reviewed this?

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Blogging: Considering the daily blog again

Long ago, I blogged a daily Scent of the Day post every single day for...er...a while. I have it in my head that I did was over a hundred days, but I suspect that I made that up. This Sunday (in, yet again, BlogChat) I remembered that and half-resolved to start blogging every day again--not necessarily about perfume, just about stuff. That was three days ago, and I haven't posted yet. So much for resolutions.

But I could still give it a try.

I occasionally theorize that the gotta-add-a-picture factor slows down blogging. The need for a picture seems vaguely silly--it's not as if y'all would come here, see a text-only post, and promptly shriek and run away, right? Right? I mean, a good fuzzy cat picture is a fine thing, but it's not as if it's mandatory

If I skipped the picture, I could even blog from my phone. Maybe. There's some sort of post-by-email thing.

Speaking of writing on my phone, I've been playing with (NAYY) the combination of Daedalus (an iOS app) and Ulysses (a Mac app.)  They're both text editors with bonus features for managing lots of text files, and, since, they're written by the same company, they sync with each other using that cloud thing. So if I have an inspiration for a random ramble while I'm waiting in line at the grocery, I can start to tap it into my phone, and when I get home to my Mac and an actual keyboard, the post fragment is there for me.

Now, the problem with this for general writing purposes is that while I'm perfectly happy to have my blog posts wafting here and there, I'm not as sure about trusting some theoretical future novel to a cloud thing. The very fact that I keep referring to it as a "cloud thing" presumably communicates my uneasiness. There's no logical reason to trust cloud syncing less than I trust email--I should really trust it more--but there it is.

Um.

So will I post again tomorrow?

We'll see. Meanwhile, I'm going to tack on a nice cat picture. According to Wikimedia Commons, his name is Noodles.

Image: By Antony Stanley. Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Meh.

Meh.

Something's wrong.

I don't really have a name for it. Waning interest? Hobby fade? Flat creativity?

See, once in a while I look at all of the things I do, and my eyes glaze over and I wonder why I do them, and I suspect that they're all an utter waste of time. But not a waste of talent, because part of the experience is the belief that I have no talent and that aspiring to demonstrate any is amusing. Funny. Ha.

I assume that it's a form of depression, but I don't know where it comes from. Last time, I theorized that it was a result of eliminating online perfume shopping--not on the theory that online perfume shopping is an urgently important thing, but instead on the theory that shopping, even when it doesn't often lead to buying, produces dopamine.

But last time wasn't as bad as this time threatens to be. Then, I was, I think, adequately confident that there was talent in there, and I just lamented that I was too disinterested to do anything with it. This time? Meh. Why bother? I'll never produce anything worthwhile anyway, at work or in my hobbies.

Yes, there is a part of my brain still saying, "Stop that! Of course you have talent, you're just wallowing! You just have to put some work into...something. Remember that ten thousand hours thing?" Then another part of my brain is replaying Danny DeVito in Matilda saying "Some will only be really good at making Jell-O salad," and telling me that I'm not even good at making Jell-O salad and I'm probably fooling myself about the fried chicken.

Writing? Feh. Flat burblings; a waste of time.

Gardening? Meh. I prepped too much ground and I can't even take care of it. And all those flowers in the yard at home come from other people's work.

Sewing? Pfft. I don't even press the clothes that I sew. Everybody else is doing Me-Made May, and look at what I'm wearing--some no-press white shirt that I bought from Eddie Bauer.

Perfume? Eh. I've fallen behind. I have nothing original to say. I know nothing.

Meh. Feh. Bleah. Pfft.

Maybe I need to eat a great deal of chicken.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Sewing: Sewing

I should be sewing.

Well, maybe not right this minute, because right this minute I'm writing, and I approve of writing, even when I'm just babbling. But during a lot of those times when I'm idly clicking through online forums and watching TV, I could be sewing. It's after dark, after all, so I can't be gardening. And, well, looking around I can see that I could certainly be doing a little housecleaning, but that wouldn't take that much time if I actually did a little of it reliably, and then we'd be back to should-be-sewing.

I was just reading one of those "use your stash because someday we all die!" threads. That's what made me think of it. Plus, I really want to wear the key-lime-pie-green Liberty Shirt that I cut months ago.

I did more babbling on this subject, but I read it over and found it really boring, so I'm going to find a nice cat picture and click Publish.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: On writing. Or making the first move. Or something.

I want to write a book.

Not necessarily get a book published, though that is of course always on the mind when one thinks of writing a book. And in fact, that's...

OK, let's back up. I've always had a problem with taking the smallest risk of pushing myself in where I might not be welcome. And I don't mean a head-ducked, blushing, Elmer Fudd "awww..." kind of shyness, I mean, "Where the bleep would you get the idea that I wanted to be part of your bleeping club? Bleep off!" I don't mean that I don't appreciate people who welcome me in. For example, I love all you guys that read me on my blog, and you guys who welcome me on your blogs. That makes me all happy and fuzzy. No, I mean...

OK, here's an example: I remember, years and years ago when I was young, that an administrator on an online roleplaying site (MUSHes? MUDs? Heard of them? No? 'Sok, it doesn't really matter to the story.) once invited me to be a fellow administrator, and I said, well, thanks, but no--without going so far as to mention that I didn't want to be part of the grudge-of-the-week dysfunction that was the staff of that particular site. Or, really, most roleplaying sites. An administrator on a roleplaying site regulates the fantasies and artistic creations of teens and college students, and therefore occupies a position that requires the diplomacy and people skills of a very good junior high school principal or corporate manager. These positions are generally held by teens and college students. This can lead to badness.

Uh. Where was I? Oh, yes. So I politely turned the offer down, and the administrator came back to me a week or so later to tell me that they'd had a meeting and I had been turned down as an administrator. I suspect that my blood pressure went up to dangerous levels as I tried to explain that I never bleeping applied, all in online messages to a person who seemed to get only one message out of three, and that one usually forty minutes after it was sent, and often apparently read out of order. (Yet another reason to avoid staff responsibility on that particular site.) I was never able to get her to comprehend "you can't turn me down; I never applied!", and I still remember the absolute fury that I felt.

I used to assume that my aversion to being seen to ask for a welcome that might not be forthcoming came from my experiences in junior high, where I was one of Those Kids, one of the small number of designated scapegoats. More recently, I realize that I might have cause and effect reversed. Even in junior high, I wouldn't be caught dead trying to ingratiate myself with hostile kids, so that might very well have been the partial cause, rather than the result, of my scapegoat status.

For example, one of my other vivid memories in this category is of sitting down at a junior high cafeteria table to eat my lunchbox lunch, and having the table slowly fill up with kids in the Moderately Popular strata. The table got full, another one of those kids turned up, and it was made clear that I should run along so that said kid could occupy my chair. One of the girls said something along the lines of, "Well, we let you sit here this long..." with the clear implication that I ought to be blushingly grateful that they'd deigned to occupy the same table that I had bleeping sat at first!

Maybe if I were more normal, I would have tried to win permission to sit in that chair, to charm the Moderately Popular? Maybe I would have been trying to ingratiate myself as the table filled up, so that I wouldn't have been asked to leave?

Shudder. Inconceivable.

In accordance with my recent tendency to blame everything on Mom,  I wonder if this personality trait came from having a mother who just wasn't that into me. In my adult relationship with Mom, there was no emotional give and take--my job was to give advice and reassurance and a responsive listening ear to Mom, and then to give Mom gratitude for the opportunity to give Mom all those things. Mom didn't give back. I think--I hope--that I do give back, but perhaps in early childhood I learned that giving first was unlikely to be a wise investment, and I developed a lifetime aversion to doing so.

Drifting back to the original subject: Getting a book traditionally published would involve a great deal of asking for a welcome that's far from assured. Worse, it would involve spending a lot of time and thought and heartache on one offering, bazillions of hours of work that I would put on a plate and hold out, saying, "Please like me?"

Shudder.

Blog posts and forum posts and other little things are easier. I write it, I close my eyes, I throw it out in the world, and I run away fast.

It's not that I fear not being good enough. Or fear having the work rejected as garbage. If I were marching up to someone for an evaluation, a test, a rating, I could deal just fine with the possibility of failing. They could throw tomatoes at me while laughing hysterically, and I could shrug and wander home to do a rewrite. It's marching (via the post office) up to someone--an agent, a publisher--asking for a professional relationship, asking for a welcome...

Re-shudder.

But I want to write the bleeping book. So it looks like some mental housekeeping is in order.

Uh.

I guess that is all. Somehow I thought this post would have more plot.

Cat image: Wikimedia Commons.
Book image: Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Rambling

This is one of those It's Been Long Enough Since I Posted posts.

The sugar snap peas are sprouting.

I wrote three hundred words of fiction today. It was lousy, but I wrote it.

I'm getting over a cold.

I don't want to work tomorrow.

I want it to be a sunny day and I want to read a murder mystery outside instead.

If I had any spare vacation I might call in and do just that.

But I don't. It's all booked.

I'm eating some sugar and gaining some of my weight back. I need to get back on the lowish-carb wagon. Iced tea. (Unsweetened.) Turkey. With mayonnaise. Olives. Chicken. Cauliflower. Broccoli. Pickled things. Greek yogurt. Cheese. Oh, and butter. Don't forget the butter.

I don't want to work tomorrow. I think it's the cold; after I'm done being sick I feel entitled to some time off feeling good. Because the cold ate all my evenings and weekends.

I'm watching the Buffy episode "The Witch." I always found the timeline of that episode to be puzzling. There were lines when Amy seemed to be, you know, Amy, when I'm pretty sure that she wasn't supposed to be. If you see what I mean. It always made me wonder if the script was changed after some of the filming was done.

Yes, I realize that I sound like a geeky Star Trek fan in that Saturday Night Live episode.

"Is that even Cordelia's locker?"

I still haven't planted my alpine strawberry seeds. Or my lettuce seeds. Not that we eat lettuce all that often. But I like growing it because I make no sense.

The leeks are growing at a startling rate, now that the weather is warming up.

So are the weeds. We need to get some landscape fabric and plastic and paper down. Not all in the same place.

"First vampires, now witches. No wonder you can still afford a house in Sunnydale."

I was going to go to bed in time to get some extra sleep before getting up for work. That window is closing. So, that is all.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.