On the sixth I said:
"Or, see, I could go on a blogging frenzy and write forty-four-thousand-and-change words of blog posts. "
I think I was joking, ha-ha, very funny. But now? Hmm. Now, I wish that I'd had that idea around Halloween, and that I'd made that my NaNoWriMo Rebel challenge: Blog fifty thousand words in the month of November. 1,667 words of blog posts every day for a month? I could do that. It sounds like fun, in a complete-madness sort of way.
But now it's November 12 and I've only blogged around 4,500 words this month, though I've written a bit more than 16,000 for NaNoWriMo. So to get to fifty thousand blogged words by November 30, I'd need to post a bit more than 2,500 words a day for the next eighteen days.
Hmmm.
Am I that crazy?
If the post after this one is really, really long, that may mean that I am.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
This blog is for rambling about, well, everything that interests me. Gardening. The Farm. Perfume. Fashion. Photography. Fried chicken. Books. Clutter. Hoarding. Sewing. Writing. Murder Mysteries. Bacon. TV. Movies. Restaurants. Cooking. Oh, and don't forget the cat pictures.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Rambling: Decluttering and the whacky
Now, it's not the same kind of mess that our house used to be years ago, or the same kind of mess that my mother's house was when I was a child. I know this, because we expected guests at 6:00 yesterday evening, and I didn't start the frantic cleaning process until 5:00. Several years ago, guests would have called for a day's notice or more. At Mom's house... well, let's just not think about it.
However, when guest preparation involves making sure that I close more than a certain minimum number of doors, that means that the house is a mess.
I'm discovering that the house being a mess is a useful thing. I scanned a stack of twenty-four sewing and craft books, a stack that I considered to be the hard-core remainder of my sewing collection, after multiple thinnings. But, driven by the mess, I thought I'd have one more look at them and see if I can find one or two to put in the "sell to the used bookstore" stack.
I found nineteen.
It's clear that my customary strategy of, "Let's get this place tidied, and then let's do some decluttering" is flawed. This weekend's plan is declutter first, tidy second.
Drifting to another angle on the same topic, I've mentioned that I worry a lot, right? About everything. And my worries have an irrational tendency to make me doubt what I'm doing. I think thoughts like:
- "If I get hit in the next round of layoffs, I'll be sorry I spent money on this hot chocolate."
- "If I do something bad and get sued and go bankrupt, I'll be sorry I didn't buy every perfume I wanted beforehand. They probably wouldn't count as a seizable asset."
- "If I get bad medical news at my next physical and promptly die, I'll feel silly that I had such a good time today."
Yes, I see the fourteen dozen different ways that these--especially the last one--make no sense whatsoever. But my point is that yesterday, I realized that there is no scenario where decluttering doesn't look like a good idea to me. If I get fired? It'd be great to have a cleaner house to update my resume in. If I get sick and promptly die, it'll be great to have all my stuff neatened and dealt with. If I accidentally do something really bad and get arrested... well, OK, there's no particular advantage to having a clean house, but there's no down side either. And, of course, if the world continues on its normal track, it'd be nice to have it continue with a tidy house.
A chunk of badness landed today--something happening to someone else, not me or Himself, but badness all the same. Decluttering tomorrow will be good.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Rambling: Dinner
Ahem.
Things got busy tonight, and dinner was three glasses of iced tea and two peanut butter cups. For me; I'm not quite sure what Himself had. I'm thinking of topping that off with a tablespoon or two of actual peanut butter.
I used to cook -- "used to" being a few years ago. Not fancy cooking, but I cooked more than this. I cooked garden vegetables this summer, though not nearly as many vegetables the garden pumped out. But now that the garden isn't out there pressuring me to "cook me! cook me!", we're eating a fair number of dinners that include Halloween candy, corn chips, or Ben & Jerry's.
Of course, I'm still frying chicken now and then. Chicken legs, chicken wings, chicken fingers. And Goop, which is essentially Chicken A La King with the sauce thickened to the consistency of cupcake frosting. (Hey, I didn't say I was proud of it.)
But I used to stir-fry things. And we made chicken and dumplings. And vegetable dishes more complex than "boil, drain, add butter". And I remember roasting a very fine duck. And there are photographs of us prepping for a party, with recipe printouts taped all over the kitchen. What happened to the cooking?
I'll have to work on it. Maybe a nice cream-based chicken soup would be a good first experiment. After, of course, NaNoWriMo.
Image: By Evan-Amos. Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Perfume: Categories
I can never find the perfume I want in a hurry. I rush to the breadboxes on the way out to lunch, hungry for a shot of Cadjmere, and I have to look at the bottoms of each numbered Parfumerie Generale bottle while Himself points out that he has an early afternoon meeting. Or I can see a Serge Lutens cap back there, but what is it?

So I've decided to stop organizing the bottles by house and start organizing them entirely by category. That leads me to defining the categories. I've figured mine out; what are yours?
Ladylike: This includes different sorts of ladies -- the sort that drive Jaguars at high speed in black-and-white movies, and the sort that go to afternoon tea in black-and-white movies. They all seem to be very self-possessed, and, yes, they're all in black and white -- there is limited welcome for modern smells here. It includes No. 19, and Balmain Ivoire, and Bas de Soie, and all of those reissued classic Lancomes -- that sort of thing.
Off to the side, eyeing all that confident decorum, are the modern flower bombs - things like A La Nuit or Tubereuse Couture. They don't really feel comfortable there, but I don't have enough flower bombs for their own category, so they'll just have to talk among themselves. They can probably also make conversation with my vintage minis of Tabu and Replique -- both of them wrapped in tiny zip bags and sitting in a little metal cup, to avoid toxic spills.
Sticky: And smoky, and furry. Chergui, Tea for Two, Oriental Lounge, Cadjmere, you know the type, right? I find it odd that I include Feminite du Bois (the old curvy bottle) here, but it seems to fit. Coco was lurking in Ladylike, but I decided that it should live here. And Serge Noire isn't altogether happy here, but it has no close companions.
Next there are the Bug Killers. This is not, I should re-emphasize, an insult. Here are the lavender (Brin de Reglisse), the vetiver (Vetiver Tonka), absinthe, cedar (to me, Navegar smells of nothing else) eucalyptus, and so on.
Then comes Leather. I adore leather, so I'm very surprised to find that only two fragrances actually live here. See, Cuir de Russie is in Ladylike, and so is Cuir de Lancome. So this category is just Bandit and Cuir Venenum, and I almost put Cuir Venenum with the bug-killers.
I don't know what to call the next category. The logical term is probably "Fresh", but I've come to associate that term with horrible synthetic citrus being waved at me by desperate sales associates. Along with the need for a better name, I'm realizing that this category needs thinning. It contains perfumes that I both love and respect, like Cristalle and L'Eau Rare Matale. Mixed among them are scents that I love but I just can't decide if I respect, like Jo Malone White Jasmine & Mint and Miyake's A Scent. And I fear that I really don't respect Lemon Sugar, or (reformulated) Balmain Vent Vert, or some of the other lemony or bergamot-filled or fruity candidates in this crowd.
Next is Ginger & Sparkles. There are only three things here -- Theorema, Sushi Imperiale, and Orange Star. But they seem to justify their own category.
And finally, the Misfits, with no logical companions. Iris Taizo, Villoresi Musk, and Hermes Hiris all stand alone together. I do keep trying to put Hiris with the ladies, but she protests.
First Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Second Image: By Steven Depolo. Wikimedia Commons.
Third Image: By Darkware. Wikimedia Commons.
Fourth Image: By Mot2. Wikimedia Commons.

So I've decided to stop organizing the bottles by house and start organizing them entirely by category. That leads me to defining the categories. I've figured mine out; what are yours?
Ladylike: This includes different sorts of ladies -- the sort that drive Jaguars at high speed in black-and-white movies, and the sort that go to afternoon tea in black-and-white movies. They all seem to be very self-possessed, and, yes, they're all in black and white -- there is limited welcome for modern smells here. It includes No. 19, and Balmain Ivoire, and Bas de Soie, and all of those reissued classic Lancomes -- that sort of thing.
Off to the side, eyeing all that confident decorum, are the modern flower bombs - things like A La Nuit or Tubereuse Couture. They don't really feel comfortable there, but I don't have enough flower bombs for their own category, so they'll just have to talk among themselves. They can probably also make conversation with my vintage minis of Tabu and Replique -- both of them wrapped in tiny zip bags and sitting in a little metal cup, to avoid toxic spills.
Sticky: And smoky, and furry. Chergui, Tea for Two, Oriental Lounge, Cadjmere, you know the type, right? I find it odd that I include Feminite du Bois (the old curvy bottle) here, but it seems to fit. Coco was lurking in Ladylike, but I decided that it should live here. And Serge Noire isn't altogether happy here, but it has no close companions.
Next there are the Bug Killers. This is not, I should re-emphasize, an insult. Here are the lavender (Brin de Reglisse), the vetiver (Vetiver Tonka), absinthe, cedar (to me, Navegar smells of nothing else) eucalyptus, and so on.
Then comes Leather. I adore leather, so I'm very surprised to find that only two fragrances actually live here. See, Cuir de Russie is in Ladylike, and so is Cuir de Lancome. So this category is just Bandit and Cuir Venenum, and I almost put Cuir Venenum with the bug-killers.
I don't know what to call the next category. The logical term is probably "Fresh", but I've come to associate that term with horrible synthetic citrus being waved at me by desperate sales associates. Along with the need for a better name, I'm realizing that this category needs thinning. It contains perfumes that I both love and respect, like Cristalle and L'Eau Rare Matale. Mixed among them are scents that I love but I just can't decide if I respect, like Jo Malone White Jasmine & Mint and Miyake's A Scent. And I fear that I really don't respect Lemon Sugar, or (reformulated) Balmain Vent Vert, or some of the other lemony or bergamot-filled or fruity candidates in this crowd.
Next is Ginger & Sparkles. There are only three things here -- Theorema, Sushi Imperiale, and Orange Star. But they seem to justify their own category.And finally, the Misfits, with no logical companions. Iris Taizo, Villoresi Musk, and Hermes Hiris all stand alone together. I do keep trying to put Hiris with the ladies, but she protests.
First Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Second Image: By Steven Depolo. Wikimedia Commons.
Third Image: By Darkware. Wikimedia Commons.
Fourth Image: By Mot2. Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Rambling: The Five-Minute Publishing Cycle
It's not exactly a proud way to get any of your fiction-writing experience, but it sure does speed up the writing. When your turn to pose rolls around, you've got two or three minutes to come up with something before people start to get twitchy. Well, that is, you used to; most of those games are gone now, and I'm sad about that.
(I'm ignoring the games where everyone waited patiently for fifteen or twenty or thirty minutes for each player to come up with some extended vocabulary-bloated six-paragraph pose, not infrequently involving cerulean or indigo eyes, the games that eliminated all hope of spontanaeity and caused a simple tea-and-scones scene to be cut off and rescheduled and cut off and rescheduled so many times that finishing it in a real-world month qualified the group as models of efficiency. I never lasted long in those games. The writing might have been superior, but, noooo!)
So I spent hours a week, for years, writing in an environment where the draft, edit, and publish cycle was less than five minutes. And -- and this is what I'm really writing about -- an environment where the time between publishing and feedback was about thirty seconds. At least for the very best stuff, the really well-crafted line that rated an out of character laugh or quick line of praise, before the person offering the feedback got moving on their three minute publishing cycle.
Is it any wonder that I can't make myself sit down and quietly write a book? Tens of thousands of words without feedback? Are they mad? Heck, I usually can't even store my excess blog posts for times when my muse runs dry; once I write it I need to post it, now now now! Even when that means three posts in a day, as it does today.
I need you guys. You folks who read my blog and comment. Even when there's nothing to comment on, I know you're out there reading it. I can hear you breathing. I can't write without you.
Image: By Hydrargyrum. Wikimedia Commons.
Cold Weather Gluttony Part Two: Chanel No. 5
So, I'm thinking of buying Chanel No. 5.
Not because I actually like it. I don't like it. But there are other classic fragrances that are slowly growing on me, and I'm becoming increasingly convinced that someday I will like it. And when that day comes, will it still be any good? Shouldn't I buy it now?
Now, I realize that this dangerous train of logic could apply to a hundred different perfumes. But this is, y'know, Chanel No. 5. It's that perfume. Shouldn't I have it? Shouldn't I be working on learning to appreciate it, just as I'm working on learning to appreciate Mitsouko and Coco? Shouldn't I?
Or is this just tying into that winter gluttony thing?
Ignoring my sanity level, are any of the currently available No. 5 concentrations any good? Extrait? EDT? Am I right to feel dubious about the EDP, or is that just from my experience with the No. 19 EDP?
Advise me or stop me. Take your pick.
Image of Ernest Beaux: Wikimedia Commons.
Not because I actually like it. I don't like it. But there are other classic fragrances that are slowly growing on me, and I'm becoming increasingly convinced that someday I will like it. And when that day comes, will it still be any good? Shouldn't I buy it now?
Now, I realize that this dangerous train of logic could apply to a hundred different perfumes. But this is, y'know, Chanel No. 5. It's that perfume. Shouldn't I have it? Shouldn't I be working on learning to appreciate it, just as I'm working on learning to appreciate Mitsouko and Coco? Shouldn't I?
Or is this just tying into that winter gluttony thing?
Ignoring my sanity level, are any of the currently available No. 5 concentrations any good? Extrait? EDT? Am I right to feel dubious about the EDP, or is that just from my experience with the No. 19 EDP?
Advise me or stop me. Take your pick.
Image of Ernest Beaux: Wikimedia Commons.
Rambling: Cold-Weather Gluttony
I want stuff.
Winter always makes me hungry. I've always assumed that that's because the cold makes me use up extra calories to keep warm. Or maybe it's just that it made my ancestors use up extra calories, even though I get to live with central heating now, and so my brain is wired for greed in cold temperatures. Either way, it makes me hungry. I want bacon, and crispy chicken skin, and things covered in mayonnaise, and crusty greasy potatoes. And cupcakes with squishy fluffy chocolate icing. Oh, and cream sauce. I want cream sauce so badly that I edited this post to add it.
But this year, I also want stuff. I want to buy a dozen pairs of those nice men's style cotton pajamas that I bought on sale a few weeks ago. I want a Great Gatsby sized collection of cotton shirts. I want to buy every Bois 1920 and Parfumerie Generale fragrance I don't already own. I want neat little flat-heeled dress shoes in every color. I want books. I want flowerpots. I want china and a china cabinet. I want six dozen Irish linen handkerchiefs. I want want want stuff stuff stuff.
Don't worry; I'm not buying this stuff. A bankruptcy lawyer is one of the things that I don't want. I'm throttling the urge to controlled levels; I bought a fuzzy winter hat and some wool socks. I'm feeling appropriately grateful that, in this economy, I can afford those. But where is this greed coming from? I'm feeling like a weird variant on Oscar -- ChickenFreak, The Hoarding Muppet.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Winter always makes me hungry. I've always assumed that that's because the cold makes me use up extra calories to keep warm. Or maybe it's just that it made my ancestors use up extra calories, even though I get to live with central heating now, and so my brain is wired for greed in cold temperatures. Either way, it makes me hungry. I want bacon, and crispy chicken skin, and things covered in mayonnaise, and crusty greasy potatoes. And cupcakes with squishy fluffy chocolate icing. Oh, and cream sauce. I want cream sauce so badly that I edited this post to add it.
But this year, I also want stuff. I want to buy a dozen pairs of those nice men's style cotton pajamas that I bought on sale a few weeks ago. I want a Great Gatsby sized collection of cotton shirts. I want to buy every Bois 1920 and Parfumerie Generale fragrance I don't already own. I want neat little flat-heeled dress shoes in every color. I want books. I want flowerpots. I want china and a china cabinet. I want six dozen Irish linen handkerchiefs. I want want want stuff stuff stuff.
Don't worry; I'm not buying this stuff. A bankruptcy lawyer is one of the things that I don't want. I'm throttling the urge to controlled levels; I bought a fuzzy winter hat and some wool socks. I'm feeling appropriately grateful that, in this economy, I can afford those. But where is this greed coming from? I'm feeling like a weird variant on Oscar -- ChickenFreak, The Hoarding Muppet.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Rambling: NaNoWriMo, Perfume, and the Conversational Kevin Bacon Game
Y'know, I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to end up writing fifty thousand words about NaNoWriMo. OK, not fifty thousand, but, y'know, a lot. It does seem to bring up a lot of thoughts that I find easy to write.
Though that's nothing special about NaNoWriMo - almost any subject, when expanded and expanded and expanded again, seems to eventually support almost any amount of musing.
Look at perfume, for example, and all of our perfume blogs. The first discussion of perfume is, of course, about the scent itself. And that can lead to discussions of scent in general, and how scent is an aid to memory, and how scent seems to have a direct link to our emotions. And it seems that quite often, perfume lovers are also pretty strongly attached to food and flavors, which makes sense, since most of flavor is about scent.
Of course, that could lead to a discussion of the official four tastes -- sweet, sour, bitter, salty. And that can lead to the controversy over the fifth taste, umami, the taste of savory/meaty flavors, and whether that taste actually exists. Umami has, I think, been recognized for a long time in Japan (and perhaps in other areas; I'm just aware of Japan because it's a Japanese word), and that can lead to a discussion of the points where absolute "it's a fact!" beliefs vary between cultures.
And that makes me think of Luca Turin and his theory of scent, and the scientific community's general attitude of "ppft" toward that theory, an attitude that seems to me to be distinctly unjustified. And that makes me think of other areas where the scientific community was recalcitrant about new ideas, like the bacterial cause for ulcers. Didn't someone actually deliberately infect himself with the bacteria in order to give himself an ulcer and prove his point, or is that a scientific urban legend? And even if they didn't, it reminds me of my psychology professor, who spoke admiringly of the man who injected himself with curare so that he couldn't move or even breathe, to prove that the behaviorists were wrong and that thought could exist without behavior.
And that reminds me of a story about Temple Grandin in A User's Guide to the Brain. As I recall it, in spite of the absolute assertion that certain mental circuits must be developed in childhood and that therefore certain skills absolutely cannot be learned in adulthood, she trained herself to deal with "personal space" by approaching supermarket automatic doors.
This is beginning to feel like the Kevin Bacon game - how many levels away from the original subject (perfume, in this case) are allowed before I can no longer claim that the topic is inspired by that original subject?
Ambling back to perfume, there is of course a huge branch that I've so far ignored, the branch that leads to perfume as a beauty product, and that leads to beauty and self-image and self-expression. And makeup -- a branch that I can't follow very far because I haven worn makeup since, roughly, age sixteen. The makeup discussion branch does lead me to my mother, as many things do. And to my mother's insistence on wearing the very same bright red lipstick day after day, the same lipstick that she's worn since at least a decade before I was born. And that makes me think of Max in 2 Broke Girls, who also wears rather retro-feeling bright red lipstick, and looks magnificent in it, and that makes me wonder if my mother, when she was Max's age, looked similarly magnificent.
And 2 Broke Girls, the rare show that acknowledges the existence of working poverty in the United States, could carry us through an far, far longer conversational path than this post could begin to support, or even outline.
Dropping back to makeup and beauty products, there's the fact that I'm starting to see distinct pillow-face lines in the mirror in the morning, lines that make me consider whether I ought to investigate whether all those skin potions actually make a bit of difference. And, going further, they're evidence that I am indeed aging, and that's another conversational path that can lead to infinity.
Beauty products lead to other self-image and beauty… stuff, like clothes. I've discussed clothes on this blog before, and my on-and-off consideration of the possibility of actually putting some thought and effort into them. I recently re-read An Episode of Sparrows, and I've always loved the bit where Lovejoy sells the new clothes bought for her by the children's home and buys some more to her taste, including "A little box coat like a reefer, not a real reefer, of course, but quite good cloth and good turnings; it was forty-three shillings, but you have to pay quite that." The delight in that description has always made me think that surely there must be more to clothes than I've ever seen before. But aside from silk scarves and the occasional neat little pair of shoes, I'm not seeing it yet.
You see? I've barely begun.
Oh, and am I counting this post toward my NaNoWriMo word count? Of course I am.
1st Image: Wikimedia Commons.
2nd Image: By Ed Uthman. Wikimedia Commons.
Though that's nothing special about NaNoWriMo - almost any subject, when expanded and expanded and expanded again, seems to eventually support almost any amount of musing.
Look at perfume, for example, and all of our perfume blogs. The first discussion of perfume is, of course, about the scent itself. And that can lead to discussions of scent in general, and how scent is an aid to memory, and how scent seems to have a direct link to our emotions. And it seems that quite often, perfume lovers are also pretty strongly attached to food and flavors, which makes sense, since most of flavor is about scent.
Of course, that could lead to a discussion of the official four tastes -- sweet, sour, bitter, salty. And that can lead to the controversy over the fifth taste, umami, the taste of savory/meaty flavors, and whether that taste actually exists. Umami has, I think, been recognized for a long time in Japan (and perhaps in other areas; I'm just aware of Japan because it's a Japanese word), and that can lead to a discussion of the points where absolute "it's a fact!" beliefs vary between cultures.
And that makes me think of Luca Turin and his theory of scent, and the scientific community's general attitude of "ppft" toward that theory, an attitude that seems to me to be distinctly unjustified. And that makes me think of other areas where the scientific community was recalcitrant about new ideas, like the bacterial cause for ulcers. Didn't someone actually deliberately infect himself with the bacteria in order to give himself an ulcer and prove his point, or is that a scientific urban legend? And even if they didn't, it reminds me of my psychology professor, who spoke admiringly of the man who injected himself with curare so that he couldn't move or even breathe, to prove that the behaviorists were wrong and that thought could exist without behavior.
And that reminds me of a story about Temple Grandin in A User's Guide to the Brain. As I recall it, in spite of the absolute assertion that certain mental circuits must be developed in childhood and that therefore certain skills absolutely cannot be learned in adulthood, she trained herself to deal with "personal space" by approaching supermarket automatic doors.
This is beginning to feel like the Kevin Bacon game - how many levels away from the original subject (perfume, in this case) are allowed before I can no longer claim that the topic is inspired by that original subject?
Ambling back to perfume, there is of course a huge branch that I've so far ignored, the branch that leads to perfume as a beauty product, and that leads to beauty and self-image and self-expression. And makeup -- a branch that I can't follow very far because I haven worn makeup since, roughly, age sixteen. The makeup discussion branch does lead me to my mother, as many things do. And to my mother's insistence on wearing the very same bright red lipstick day after day, the same lipstick that she's worn since at least a decade before I was born. And that makes me think of Max in 2 Broke Girls, who also wears rather retro-feeling bright red lipstick, and looks magnificent in it, and that makes me wonder if my mother, when she was Max's age, looked similarly magnificent.
And 2 Broke Girls, the rare show that acknowledges the existence of working poverty in the United States, could carry us through an far, far longer conversational path than this post could begin to support, or even outline.
Dropping back to makeup and beauty products, there's the fact that I'm starting to see distinct pillow-face lines in the mirror in the morning, lines that make me consider whether I ought to investigate whether all those skin potions actually make a bit of difference. And, going further, they're evidence that I am indeed aging, and that's another conversational path that can lead to infinity.
Beauty products lead to other self-image and beauty… stuff, like clothes. I've discussed clothes on this blog before, and my on-and-off consideration of the possibility of actually putting some thought and effort into them. I recently re-read An Episode of Sparrows, and I've always loved the bit where Lovejoy sells the new clothes bought for her by the children's home and buys some more to her taste, including "A little box coat like a reefer, not a real reefer, of course, but quite good cloth and good turnings; it was forty-three shillings, but you have to pay quite that." The delight in that description has always made me think that surely there must be more to clothes than I've ever seen before. But aside from silk scarves and the occasional neat little pair of shoes, I'm not seeing it yet.
You see? I've barely begun.
Oh, and am I counting this post toward my NaNoWriMo word count? Of course I am.
1st Image: Wikimedia Commons.
2nd Image: By Ed Uthman. Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
NaNoWriMo: Changing direction. Again. Maybe a few times.
See, I like my plot. It's not just good enough, I actually like it. And the characters. And the several different ways that it could go. And I strongly suspect that it's a concept that won't benefit from the frantic "Hey! That could be a scene with a lot of words!" approach of NaNoWriMo. At least, that's my approach to NaNoWriMo.
So.
See.
It's a problem.
Now that I've found the plot that I wanted, I'm seriously considering doing something else. Something that would probably go in the NaNoWriMo Rebel category. I'd still count the 5,573 words I've written so far; that would be part of the rebel thing.
So, something else, like a nonfiction book about clutter and hoarding and, while I'm at it, why all the experts demonstrate a fundamental misunderstanding of compulsive hoarders.
Or a nonfiction book about gardening. Writing fifty thousand words (OK, 44,427 words) about gardening might finally break through my "Why can't I write about gardening?" block. Admittedly, I already know that much of the explanation of the block is "Because I can't write as well as Henry Mitchell, that's why." But all the same, the fact that I can't write as well as Calvin Trillin doesn't stop me from writing about food.
Or, see, I could go on a blogging frenzy and write forty-four-thousand-and-change words of blog posts. Would that just be sheer mad madness? Probably, because fifty thousand words doesn't really allow for, y'know, editing, and I like to edit before I post.
But it does mean that I could count this post. So it'd only be (frantic calculation) 44,159 words to go.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, November 4, 2011
NaNoWriMo: Empty Pages
So I've run into a big, big problem with NaNoWriMo. Bigger than I've ever had before.
The problem? I have a plot. Just like I wanted. I have a plot with characters, and motivations, and a beginning, and a middle, and an end. Really, several possible middles and ends, but one that's firm enough to actually write to.
Except I can't. Now that I know where I'm going, I can't seem to get on the road at all. I should be up to about seven thousand words by now; I'm at two thousand.
I can think of scenes. I can think of dialogue. The characters are talking to each other in my head. But I can't seem to write any of it.
Grumble.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
The problem? I have a plot. Just like I wanted. I have a plot with characters, and motivations, and a beginning, and a middle, and an end. Really, several possible middles and ends, but one that's firm enough to actually write to.
Except I can't. Now that I know where I'm going, I can't seem to get on the road at all. I should be up to about seven thousand words by now; I'm at two thousand.
I can think of scenes. I can think of dialogue. The characters are talking to each other in my head. But I can't seem to write any of it.
Grumble.
Image: Wikimedia Commons.
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