Looking Forward

Soooo.... how are you?

I'm good.

Slowly mastering potion-making. I think I ought to have my head read. On the bright side, September officially ends today, and that means I should be getting back to work (on something, I suppose) on Monday. Should be.

It's probably going to be The Great Man. Events in the book keep popping into my head. That means three months of hell. No seriously.

Here's the thing. I don't drive the stories. They drive me. The best recent example of that was the terrible daydream that had me sobbing hysterically moments before Jazz returned from Boston.

It was a daydream. I was lucid. I should have been able to control it. But no. I wasn't. The result was excruciating heartbreak.

Writing The Great Man series has proven to be much the same sort of experience. All the angst and grief and anger are things I tend to feel myself - even though I'm just describing a character's experience. It's a bit like when someone upsets your friend, and you feel upset on their behalf. Only, imagine feeling like that for three months.

And the nightmares!

Oivey! This series takes a lot out of me.

And yet, there isn't any other story I care as much about. There is no other story I've written that drives me to write the way this one does.

It's a little frightening, possibly psychotic, and I'll be very glad when it's over. For now, though, I'll suffer my way through it because, and you can quote me on this, the ending is just beautiful. Like a sunrise.

O.K. Last day of freedom coming up. I'd best make the most of it. Have a great weekend everyone. See you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Monday morning!

One-Wheeled Coach

The young men of a place, when they know that a young man is paying attention to a girl, seize hold of him and place him in a wheelbarrow in which they wheel him up and down until they are tired, when they upset on the nearest pile or in a pond. To say that a man has "ridden in the one-wheeled coach" is tantamount to the expression that he has gone a-courting.

- Rev. S. Rundle's Transactions of the Penzance Natural History Society, 1886

A-courting. Really?

I Was a Peruvian Farmer

True story. I was. Yesterday. And you can read about it on Rita's blog here.

As for the declaration that I was going to begin writing ahead of schedule. It's not happening. Pottermore.com has sucked me into a world of make-believe and I am currently trying to master the exact science and subtle art that is potion-making.

Oh, and spell-casting is horribly tricky as well.

When it works, it works well. I wish it would work more often.

Training is going very well. Wednesday nights K.C. and I have started working with the body pads (padded chest/body protectors so we can actually hit each other - getting hit still hurts, by the by. I shudder to think what it feels like with out the pad!). I'm uncoordinated and K.C. is very kindly keeping the drills simple for me. Still, it's wicked fun.

M.D. came over last night. She's in town from Saskatchewan ... or was is Saskatoon. One of those. It was lovely to see her again in any case. She's looking well and she's awesome as always.

Have you seen the Game of Thrones teaser trailer? I have. I can't wait for it to start!

On the subject of T.V. shows, there are two slated to premier soon, and I can't wait to see them. Grimm and Once Upon A Time. It's so wonderful to see faerie tales coming back into story-telling. I'm a huge fan of faerie tales.

Right, nothing else to report, so I'm going to Hogwarts now. Potions starts soon and I don't want Snape to get mad at me...

Nothing's Nest

A nonentity. "He's a nothing's nest."

- G.F. Northall's Warwickshire Word-Book, 1896

Pottermore Hates Me

At least, I think it does.

You see, I got my invitation to partake in the Beta version this week, and I was thoroughly excited.

Except that high traffic meant that Pottermore wouldn't load... All day... and then all night. I got in in drips and drabs, even managed to get sorted... shortly before midnight (Gryffindor, if you must know).

The Beta version was opened to a few to test out and suggest improvements. Here's a suggestion:

Get a server that can handle it.

No, seriously. I mean, we're just the test group and we can't get on and enjoy a smooth, frustration free experience. What the hell's going to happen when the whole world jumps on the site?

Seriously. I don't think this was thought through at all.

And that's my griping for the day.

Yesterday was a weird day all around. By the time 3pm rolled around, I was so exhausted I could barely move. I went straight home - no training. Yes, I was that tired. I ordered pizza because I was too exhausted to cook. I ate almost the whole thing before I felt satisfied... and then I got my energy back.

Say what?

I ate well that day (pizza aside), so I shouldn't have been the food. The air in the office is bloody terrible, so I can totally see it being that.

But then, why the boost after the pizza? Is it because the pizza is full of fat and sugar? I don't understand.

Oh well, there goes my weight loss goal at any rate. I'm definitely going to training tonight to make up for all that terrible, terrible, but so yummy, food.

Oh, writing. Right. That's what this blog is supposed to be about. So, in between trying to get onto Pottermore and trying hard not to fall asleep, I worked a little bit on Ethan Cadfael: The Battle Prince. I figured another basic edit would be in order. It's a good thing too. There were still a mountain of typos, and I only got to chapter 3!

I suppose I ought to go through a bit more today.

All-Sorts

The leavings of [saloon] glasses, poured together and sold cheap.

- Mitford Mathew's Dictionary of Americanisms, 1956

A slang term designating the drippings of glasses in saloons, collected and sold at half-price to drinkers who are not overly particular.

- Sylva Clapin's Dictionary of Americanisms, 1902

... or hygienic, apparently...

Now That I've Decided To...

I won't be.

Turns out, things outside of writing are starting to happen, so I'll be not writing.

First on the bill, it's short story judging. I was supposed to do that yesterday, but the computer went berserk at being woken up yesterday and I got close to nothing done.

Luckily, these short stories are quite short, so it shouldn't take me long.

The rest of the day will be spent exploring Pottermore. I got the email late last night, and I'll be jumping on as soon as I can. I can't wait to check it out! I'm such a geek.

Right, must get on with it. Have a great Tuesday all!

Open-Verdict

A verdict returned by the jury... by which it is found that a crime has been committed without specifying the criminal, or that a sudden or violent death has occurred, without assigning any cause.

- Edward Lloyd's Encyclopaedic Dictionary, 1895

A Wedding, an Anniversary and a ... Funeral?

This weekend was jam-packed.

On the 24th, my beautiful eldest sister had her birthday. Without a computer at home, I wasn't able to wish her a happy birthday until today...

It also happened to be my dear friend, D.P.'s wedding. It was a beautiful wedding, simple and elegant, with a reverend who had a phenomenal sense of humour and often broke into song, and a intimate reception full of laughter and dancing. It really was a fabulous time. I met some lovely people that weekend, and I do hope that we stay in touch.

I am so glad that D.P. has found someone with as much wit and warmth as S.S. and I truly hope that they live long, fulfilling lives together.

And that's as sentimental as you're likely to find me.

Sunday the 25th saw an anniversary of the Hung Men Association here in Ottawa. Yes, I'm aware what that name implies. Yes, I've laughed hysterically at it already. But that doesn't mean you get to. Bear in mind, it's a Chinese association. There was a delicious Chinese lunch to attend... which I did, and gladly.

So you know, the Hung Men (or Heng Mun?) Association has very kindly allowed Wutan Canada the use of their facilities and equipment for our Lion Dance troupe.

Sunday afternoon, I returned home to have a nice long nap. Then I woke to clean house in anticipation of J.M-B.'s return. She's been in Boston for the better part of a week and a half. Before I swept, I decided to take another little break, and ended up snoozing on the couch in the living room.

Where I had the most horrifying day-dream (alright, it was night, but I was still conscious - and, one would have thought, therefore able to better control what happened in said dream). Two of my Kung Fu brothers (one my good friend, K.C.) were involved in this dream. Poor K.C. got the worst of it, and was killed. In front of me. After I had saved him from another life-threatening danger.

The dream had me in such a state, I was sobbing when the door opened and J.M-B. walked in. I had sobbed so hard, in fact, that the pillow on which my head rested was very, very wet with tears. When I tried to relate the dream to J.M-B., I started crying again.

I might need therapy.

Needless to say, I'll be writing that day-dream down. It is going to make the most depressing short story I've ever written... and that's saying something!

Speaking of writing, I didn't do any of it last week... and I didn't enjoy it at all. Taking time off is overrated. I say this every time, I realise.

I'm still not ready to face The Great Man yet. There's a whole lot of grief and angst and pain that I don't think I can deal with just yet in that book. Though, to be honest, I'll be glad when the series is finally written and I can leave it well behind me. Still, I should get back to writing again, so today I think I'll write that horrifically depressing short story, though not before I judge these other short stories I ought to be judging.

I also realise, that when I stop writing, my brain goes to the dogs. I realise that, for the second week in a row, I've forgotten the weekend Forgotten English. So, again, today you all get a two-for-one special.

Backend

They sometimes say the backend of the week, but latter end is more common.

- Rev. Alfred Easther's Glossary of the Dialect of Almondbury and Huddersfield, 1883

Late autumn; Cumbria.

- Alexander Gibson's Folk-Speech of Cumberland, 1880

The later part of a season.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1888

Backendish, rough and wintry, generally applied to the weather.

- Rev. M.C.F. Morris' Yorkshire Folk-Talk, 1892

Ronyon

From the French rogne, the scab or scurf. A term of contempt, applied to a female, as "scurvy fellow" was similarly applied to a male, and both derived from the same French origin, and neither having particular reference to size. "Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries." Macbeth.

- William Toone's Etymological Dictionary of Obsolete Words, 1831

The male [sex] organ.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1914.