Man-Friend went to a town hall police board meeting with P.A.
So I hope when he gets back, he has grapes.
And I had toast for dinner it was greaaat.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Distracted Writing
So I've been working on this novel for like...seven years.
Let's do some math. I am 21.
Seven years ago I was deep into roleplaying this story with Non-Dog BFF. It was August. A Friday in August to be precise, and the next morning I had to be up bright and early for the farmers market. Friend and I put together our redonkulous characters and started weaving this very silly story together. A few months later I felt it would be good to juice it up and give it some sensibleness.
We continued to work on the writing/roleplaying part until somewhere into 2005 even early 2006. For one reason or another we fell out of contact. The characters were still drawn a lot, but Draft 2 of the story was fading away.
2007 hit. It was summer and I was with my family in the middle of Wyoming, driving a really cool RV we had rented. That was the peak of my mopey-stage. As suggested by my therapist, I was writing in a journal. It wasn't helping though, as the writing was all angry, depressive words. Instead I read books about Modern-Day Frankenstein. It got me thinking about our forgotten story again. Thus Draft 3 was born, and I had soon forgotten my woes and spent the entire drive back to Michigan plugging away 25 pages of script.
Draft 3 took me until 2010. I spent countless hours writing, refining, writing. In the end I had about 150 pages of words, yet I still hadn't reached my climax. Pre-Indy, I sat down for a week and wrote about 10k words, under a cloak of Gin. As time went on though, I re-read it, gravely dissatisfied with my contradictions and lack of character structure. Instead of editing, I just bombed the project and gave in to draft 4.
My fourth draft so far has around 20,000 words, and I haven't even chipped away at what I intended to write. It very well could be a 400 page novel, which I won't fight.
Editing has been an issue. I can reread a chapter 20 times, and on the 21 time I finally notice that I wrote some word that is only recognized by the Dutch and means nothing unless you're Yoda. And I lack the motivation to continue writing. I keep getting stuck. I fear my own writing being public. If one copy was ever made of it, I'd be happy. Perhaps it's just the fear speaking.
And the time I took into writing this, could have been time used on writing a story. What a fail.
The entire story makes sense in my head. It's all planned, it's just spewing it out.
This is also stupid. Just the fact that Andrew can read over my shoulder prevents me from working on it. I have spent so much time just staring at him play Skyrim, that I could have written so much by now. I could be halfway done.
Back to the Snowflake Method for me.
Let's do some math. I am 21.
Seven years ago I was deep into roleplaying this story with Non-Dog BFF. It was August. A Friday in August to be precise, and the next morning I had to be up bright and early for the farmers market. Friend and I put together our redonkulous characters and started weaving this very silly story together. A few months later I felt it would be good to juice it up and give it some sensibleness.
We continued to work on the writing/roleplaying part until somewhere into 2005 even early 2006. For one reason or another we fell out of contact. The characters were still drawn a lot, but Draft 2 of the story was fading away.
2007 hit. It was summer and I was with my family in the middle of Wyoming, driving a really cool RV we had rented. That was the peak of my mopey-stage. As suggested by my therapist, I was writing in a journal. It wasn't helping though, as the writing was all angry, depressive words. Instead I read books about Modern-Day Frankenstein. It got me thinking about our forgotten story again. Thus Draft 3 was born, and I had soon forgotten my woes and spent the entire drive back to Michigan plugging away 25 pages of script.
Draft 3 took me until 2010. I spent countless hours writing, refining, writing. In the end I had about 150 pages of words, yet I still hadn't reached my climax. Pre-Indy, I sat down for a week and wrote about 10k words, under a cloak of Gin. As time went on though, I re-read it, gravely dissatisfied with my contradictions and lack of character structure. Instead of editing, I just bombed the project and gave in to draft 4.
My fourth draft so far has around 20,000 words, and I haven't even chipped away at what I intended to write. It very well could be a 400 page novel, which I won't fight.
Editing has been an issue. I can reread a chapter 20 times, and on the 21 time I finally notice that I wrote some word that is only recognized by the Dutch and means nothing unless you're Yoda. And I lack the motivation to continue writing. I keep getting stuck. I fear my own writing being public. If one copy was ever made of it, I'd be happy. Perhaps it's just the fear speaking.
And the time I took into writing this, could have been time used on writing a story. What a fail.
The entire story makes sense in my head. It's all planned, it's just spewing it out.
This is also stupid. Just the fact that Andrew can read over my shoulder prevents me from working on it. I have spent so much time just staring at him play Skyrim, that I could have written so much by now. I could be halfway done.
Back to the Snowflake Method for me.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Where I am Regarded as Entertaining.
I have some cute stories of my dog that I could graciously share.
I also have those wonderfully incriminating childhood bladder stories.
Whilst in thought last night, I had the realization that there is a wealth of amusement in my toddlerdom.
I was the youngest of four very different girls. It's not that we're all 'weird'; we just has vastly different personalities. The eldest of us is a fiery brunette who is 'one of the guys' and has no shyness in talking about anything really. She's funny.
The next is a Susie-Homemaker who adores conversation about budgets, making pasta from SCRTCH, and news today. She's funny.
Right before me, is the diva kindergarten teacher who could be summed up by saying she has an almost non-platonic crush on Jane Austen's literature. She's funny.
Then is me. My mom always called me her 'Breath of Fresh Air'. She finds me refreshing because I'm the weirdo of her kids (not the obscene one, or the one who knits her own headbands, and certainly not the one who relates personally to Fanny Price). Aside from weird, she calls me morbid and the only one who laughs at my Dad's jokes. And in most documented photos of me - especially those for the holiday keepsake photos - I am the one making a non-generic smile. I was born to make dumb faces.
Between my sisters and I and our collective efforts of giving my dad grey hair before he was 30, I probably have a lot to talk about.
My dog isn't the only interesting thing in my life. My parents are also funny people. I'm not one of those people who can relish in their time with friends. I didn't go to parties. I didn't do anything. I was somewhat reclusive when highschool came to a close. I really only talk with Non-Dog BFF and her family.
But really, I could just tell a thousand different stories about how creative I was when I peed my pants as a kid. Pun intended, they're juicy stories.
I also have those wonderfully incriminating childhood bladder stories.
Whilst in thought last night, I had the realization that there is a wealth of amusement in my toddlerdom.
I was the youngest of four very different girls. It's not that we're all 'weird'; we just has vastly different personalities. The eldest of us is a fiery brunette who is 'one of the guys' and has no shyness in talking about anything really. She's funny.The next is a Susie-Homemaker who adores conversation about budgets, making pasta from SCRTCH, and news today. She's funny.
Right before me, is the diva kindergarten teacher who could be summed up by saying she has an almost non-platonic crush on Jane Austen's literature. She's funny.
Then is me. My mom always called me her 'Breath of Fresh Air'. She finds me refreshing because I'm the weirdo of her kids (not the obscene one, or the one who knits her own headbands, and certainly not the one who relates personally to Fanny Price). Aside from weird, she calls me morbid and the only one who laughs at my Dad's jokes. And in most documented photos of me - especially those for the holiday keepsake photos - I am the one making a non-generic smile. I was born to make dumb faces.
Between my sisters and I and our collective efforts of giving my dad grey hair before he was 30, I probably have a lot to talk about.
My dog isn't the only interesting thing in my life. My parents are also funny people. I'm not one of those people who can relish in their time with friends. I didn't go to parties. I didn't do anything. I was somewhat reclusive when highschool came to a close. I really only talk with Non-Dog BFF and her family.
But really, I could just tell a thousand different stories about how creative I was when I peed my pants as a kid. Pun intended, they're juicy stories.
Monday, December 5, 2011
My desk.
Ears of another size
As of yet, I have no followers. Nothing.
This blog may as well be some ghost town in Wyoming, next to the tourist trap town. No one has heard of it (except of course people who live in Wyoming. hi andrew. ohow are you? aaarrrrrggggghhhhh (reading over the shoulder.))
Essentially, I could write twenty posts tonight about inconsequential things. Not a soul would care, as this page is just a small wisp of air. It's kind of like that fart that you let out in math class; No one heard it or smelt it, so you just pretended it didn't happen.
Just like my canine companion was cursed with small genitalia that could never produce young, I have small ears. My headphones keep falling out because they just won't suction in there. They are some old Skull Candy's that I got to be edgy. Distantly in the past, I possessed a BlueTooth headset. $14 were lost in the clearance electronics at Meijer. I threw it out after trying to use it for five days. One of those days, I had a glorious phone conversation with ManMan while I was busy at work tending to the flat display at the greenhouse. The catch was that I had to rubber band it to my ears. It really looked stupid, and I could not figure it out again. What a total waste.
My non-dog BFF recommended I watch this show 'Teen Wolf'. I assume that it's on Netflix Instant Queue, so I'll play it on my phone and be extra exciting and watch it.
Opening. Police Car. I bet some person has been mangled by some kinda ANIMAAALl.
No wait. Zoom on house. Naked boy is fixing a lacross paddle?? Certainly worked himself up a sweat.
His jerk friend just fell out of his roof or something to tell him about WAIT FOR IT. Dead Body.
Joggers found it. And half of it was there. Duh it was an animal.
Lol. Kid just said the key thing "What if whatever killed the body is still out there?"
I bet the main kid is going to get bit by a werewolf. He is in the woods by himself after all.
No, just trampled by sweet CG deer. Elk or something.
Lol. I can't narrarate my watching experience. This entry was supposed to be about my ears dangit.
I'm ending for the minute. Be back in a few minutes. To post something else stupid.
This blog may as well be some ghost town in Wyoming, next to the tourist trap town. No one has heard of it (except of course people who live in Wyoming. hi andrew. ohow are you? aaarrrrrggggghhhhh (reading over the shoulder.))
Essentially, I could write twenty posts tonight about inconsequential things. Not a soul would care, as this page is just a small wisp of air. It's kind of like that fart that you let out in math class; No one heard it or smelt it, so you just pretended it didn't happen.
Just like my canine companion was cursed with small genitalia that could never produce young, I have small ears. My headphones keep falling out because they just won't suction in there. They are some old Skull Candy's that I got to be edgy. Distantly in the past, I possessed a BlueTooth headset. $14 were lost in the clearance electronics at Meijer. I threw it out after trying to use it for five days. One of those days, I had a glorious phone conversation with ManMan while I was busy at work tending to the flat display at the greenhouse. The catch was that I had to rubber band it to my ears. It really looked stupid, and I could not figure it out again. What a total waste.
My non-dog BFF recommended I watch this show 'Teen Wolf'. I assume that it's on Netflix Instant Queue, so I'll play it on my phone and be extra exciting and watch it.
Opening. Police Car. I bet some person has been mangled by some kinda ANIMAAALl.
No wait. Zoom on house. Naked boy is fixing a lacross paddle?? Certainly worked himself up a sweat.
His jerk friend just fell out of his roof or something to tell him about WAIT FOR IT. Dead Body.
Joggers found it. And half of it was there. Duh it was an animal.
Lol. Kid just said the key thing "What if whatever killed the body is still out there?"
I bet the main kid is going to get bit by a werewolf. He is in the woods by himself after all.
No, just trampled by sweet CG deer. Elk or something.
Lol. I can't narrarate my watching experience. This entry was supposed to be about my ears dangit.
I'm ending for the minute. Be back in a few minutes. To post something else stupid.
Prince Derp Dog
I find myself entertaining until I choose to talk about it.
I drew a picture of my dog in roughly twelve minutes.
This is Prince Indiana Buford Frankenstein.
He is a very swell dog, despite his lacking in man-parts. He's a nice dog except for his small head. And his badly done tail docking and horribly scarred dew claws (the man who owned the barn that Indy and his family were bred did it himself, and the litter was an accident.)
Man-Man just read over my shoulder and I got quite self-conscious.
Everything aside, I really could write an entire anthology, depicting all the Adventures of Indiana Frankenstein. I want to write his biography. Anyone who enters my house, will be annoyed by him. Anyone cooking at the stove, will be shouting "INDY. WE ARE EATING." (recently a new command has been issued, varying with 'Cooking' as opposed to 'eating'.) Anyone who sleeps in the beds of my house, will find this dog's small head resting gently on it BEGGING to lay under their blanket.
I'm at that silly point of writing that I just feel ...silly. My grammar skills are trash right now.
I had at least thirty-two anecdotes I could have shared, instead I default to my three year old BFF.
Fact: Indiana is listed as my son on Facebook. His father used to be Man-Man, until he either felt dumb over it or he wanted people to take him serious. Of course, no one takes anyone serious with a son named Frankenstein.
I've been told that I start doting on the dog for no reason. I've been told that the dog just needs to be standing there and I find something amusing about him. Nobody understands me.
No one.
So I suppose, if I have nothing else worth commentating on in my exciting life (I think it's exciting and filled with all the laughs in the world...whutevs) I can at least write about my dog.
I drew a picture of my dog in roughly twelve minutes.
This is Prince Indiana Buford Frankenstein.
He is a very swell dog, despite his lacking in man-parts. He's a nice dog except for his small head. And his badly done tail docking and horribly scarred dew claws (the man who owned the barn that Indy and his family were bred did it himself, and the litter was an accident.)
Man-Man just read over my shoulder and I got quite self-conscious.
Everything aside, I really could write an entire anthology, depicting all the Adventures of Indiana Frankenstein. I want to write his biography. Anyone who enters my house, will be annoyed by him. Anyone cooking at the stove, will be shouting "INDY. WE ARE EATING." (recently a new command has been issued, varying with 'Cooking' as opposed to 'eating'.) Anyone who sleeps in the beds of my house, will find this dog's small head resting gently on it BEGGING to lay under their blanket.
I'm at that silly point of writing that I just feel ...silly. My grammar skills are trash right now.
I had at least thirty-two anecdotes I could have shared, instead I default to my three year old BFF.
Fact: Indiana is listed as my son on Facebook. His father used to be Man-Man, until he either felt dumb over it or he wanted people to take him serious. Of course, no one takes anyone serious with a son named Frankenstein.
No one.
So I suppose, if I have nothing else worth commentating on in my exciting life (I think it's exciting and filled with all the laughs in the world...whutevs) I can at least write about my dog.
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