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| Tuesday, December 12, 2006 |
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A new home for the fuzz cuffs...
Lo!, just in time for the holiday season--and timed to allow for conspicuous consumption of celebratory booze under the auspices of seasonal cheer--my inbox bears word that Phaze wants to publish Devil's Night.
It's almost more than I can wrap my head around, because Phaze topped my list of potential homes, and they answered so fast, I didn't have time to freak over possible rejection. Which bodes well, right?
So now I'm a Phaze author. A very bruised one--I need to quit pinching now. *g*
At this point, I know they want it for a late-July slot. Which means that yes, by my birthday, I'll be an honest-to-God published writer.
Funny, how calm I am. The squee, I suppose, will hit when I've actually told someone face-to-face. |
posted by curiously_meg @ 12:03 AM  |
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| Tuesday, November 14, 2006 |
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Done. I'm done NaNo.
Hit 50k tonight when I spliced in the bits. Just because they don't read like one finished novella, doesn't mean they can't make my word count, right? Because they'll end up in the finished product.
Funny thing, though. Hitting 50k doesn't finish my story. I've still got messes to clean up, characters to kill, and sex to write. Squicks to ignore.
And now that I lack that NaNo push AND my schedule veers to the impossible, I wonder how I'll maintain my enthusiasm.
Time will tell, I suppose.
Wierd. I thought I'd be a whole lot more excited about reaching the magic 50k. Hm. |
| posted by curiously_meg @ 9:32 PM |
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I'm 46k into the NaNo, which either gets done by this weekend or not at all. And I'm stuck.
Don't-want-to-write-about-these-guys-anymore stuck.
Not that I don't have ideas. Of course I do. Some of 'em are even connected to the story I'm *cough* working on. It's that the only parts of the story I need to write before I begin patching are the parts of the story I don't want to write.
Which, of course, entices procrastination through things like this blog and the vampire game (thanks a lot, Feist) but keeps me from actual work.
Pretty much everyone who knows me believes I need a keeper of some sort. Someone to make sure a) that I'm wearing socks and b) that they sort-of-match, for instance. Someone who'll remind me every morning that beating my alarm clock into submission is not condusive to getting to work on time. Someone who'll do laundry and dishes and crap like that. *sigh*
Me, I think I need a herder. Someone who'll boot my ass in gear and get this damned story done. God knows I'm not doing it on my own. |
| posted by curiously_meg @ 5:56 PM |
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| Saturday, November 11, 2006 |
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Uh, Houston, we have a problem...
| You Should Be a Song Writer | 
You have the ability to evoke emotion, tell a story, and hook someone...
In a very small amount of words, perhaps with some deft rhyming.
Even if you can't write music, you can sure write compelling lyrics.
Lyrics so good, people will have them stuck in their heads! |
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| posted by curiously_meg @ 2:10 AM |
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| Tuesday, November 07, 2006 |
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Sometimes, it's just better not to look.
The words hit the page all the same, whether there's eyes on the screen or the keys or that weird-ass, vaguely ominous crack in the apartment ceiling that has me imagining getting to know the folks in 304 a whole lot better than I do currently.
Actually, sometimes they hit better if I'm not watching. Like the less aware I am that there's a keyboard/monitor/word processor around, the more aware I am of what's going on in my head. The playlist becomes white noise, the underlying beat a pattern begging keystrokes to match, and I become--the horror!--productive.
Sort of.
So sometimes, I don't watch. Don't even pretend to. Just stare at that crack--or worse, the bland patch of paint beside it because I want nothing of visual interest in my "space"--and type away like a fool. Figure the faster I go, the sooner I'll be through that page, the sooner I can move on to something else. Something less...squicky. Or boring. We won't get into how I'm occasionally bored with my own pages, save to say it's typical of overplanning.
There's a reason I don't outline.
If I don't watch, no squicking. No squirming. No sitting red-faced, wondering how the hell I proposed to fit tab A into slot B without breaking fictious spines. Apparently, I write limber. *shrug*
The downfall, of course--and there's always a downfall--is that writing blind leaves a lot to faith. In Autocorrect, who catches my idiot typos and translates them. Autocorrect may be the only thing on earth that understands my "nad/hte" thing and when I teach it "tot hat" with any measure of success, I'm considering it a second pet. Christ knows my cat's never been that helpful.
Faith, too, in my own typing. Touch type? Fun stuff. Touch type with your fingers a few keys over from their intended starting position? An adventure of the fuck-I-feel-a-migrane, get-the-rum sort. Because there's not a damned thing Autocorrect can do and fuck, that's never going to be English again, now is it?
So why do it? Squick. Sometimes boredom, but usually squick. I'm a week into NaNo and I've squicked myself twice. As I'm harder to squick than I probably should be (see last entry...*profane eyeroll*) I'm more impressed with the squick stat than I am with the word count thus far...
Ever squick yourself? When don't you look? |
| posted by curiously_meg @ 12:49 PM |
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| Friday, November 03, 2006 |
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TW tagged me, hence I return to the ghost town that is this blog.
Suffice to say, my misbehaviour has been unremarkable.
1. I tried to tattoo myself at 15 with a sewing needle and a bottle of calligraphy ink from art class. It didn't hurt so much as it took way too long, so partway through, I scratched up the pattern and laid the ink into the skin. For about a week, I had a recognizable design no one ever saw. It rubbed off. To this day, I've got two small black dots that linger. No one else knows they're there.
2. I'm a virgin. Seen no action at all save one drunk make-out session mid-bar that got broken up by a crazed former friend who threatened to kick the shit out of him if he went near me again. That was not the reason the friendship ended. Until four days ago, I had a short under consideration with EC.
3. My Christmas tree has been up since last year. In June, I moved it across my living room. I haven't touched it since. If I took it down, my apartment would look way too big because I have no furniture. I'd rather have the Christmas tree, anyway.
4. The New Year's Eve I was 18, I babysat my 16-year-old cousin and his friends at the world's stupidest house party. Which is to say there were four of us, I was the only chick, and they spent most of the night mocking each other for crushes on completely inappropriate girls. When the "party" ended and the other two toddled off to throw up all the way home, my cousin launched a ten-minute campaign that we have sex. He's not the only cousin to try. They haven't all been male.
5. Last summer, I had a daily long-distance thing with a Dom who lives near me but who'd gone out west to teach for the summer. It was the most erotic month of my life. (See items 2 and 4 to gauge how low the benchmark was...) I left for Atlanta. Realized his fetishes weirded me out. I haven't talked to him since. I still fantasize about him.
I'm tagging Raelynn, Mary, and Kate. |
| posted by curiously_meg @ 8:37 PM |
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| Sunday, September 24, 2006 |
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So here she is.
The misbehaving blog, up and ready to roll. And strangely, I find myself lacking pithy/witty anythings to put here.
Possibly I've burnt it all out for the night on IMs.
Since the birth of Trashy Writers, I've had Erotica running through my head. Nothing quite like music to instantly hit that mental switch, you know what I mean? And as the green of summer dies off piece by piece, I find myself sliding seamlessly into a darker, bleaker playlist than what I've had lately.
As much as summer means trance and punk, fall means goth and metal. Marilyn Manson, Trent Reznor, Shirley Manson, Amy Lee. A Perfect Circle's Imagine, Johnny Cash's Hurt. Dark and hard, dark and depressing. Dark and darker, really, and it perfectly soundtracks the earth's fall from the over-ripeness of harvest to the decay that follows.
Some twisted-puppy part of me likes this time of year best. The dying edge of summer's last gasp. I'm about to get maudlin--morbid--and I'll love every second of it.
Some people have a thing for Christmas. Some, St. Pat's Day. Some like New Year's, some, Hallowe'en. Me, I like Devil's Night. It's like the last day before the trifecta of All Hallow's, All Souls and All Saints. A night made for misbehaviour, something neighbourhood pranksters have known forever and a day, it seems.
And this year, I seem to be starting the celebrations early. One can only speculate how this will show up in my writing. I'm guessing my next project won't be a sweet little comedy.
The cuffs, I imagine, won't be fuzzy. This is not entirely bad. There are times the playlist diverts the project at hand, then there are those glorious times the playlist infuses it. We'll see what this open-a-vein playlist does but at the moment, I'm optimistic.
What about you, gentle blog readers? What playlists get you cranked? Anyone else get macabre as Hallowe'en approaches? Anyone else think it should be a time-off-work holiday? *weg*
And, most importantly, anyone got anything I should be adding to my current playlist? All suggestions welcome... |
| posted by curiously_meg @ 10:55 PM |
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| About Me |
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Name: curiously_meg
Home: St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada
About Me: Meg Winston misbehaves near the Honeymoon Capital of the World, where she writes erotic romance for Phaze and wonders where all the bad boys have gone.
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