they must need bears

Wow. CSI:NY is a really, really, really bad TV show.

0.0

(Yeah, I was too lazy to turn off the TV after watching Criminal Minds.)

Expect conversation on that show in the morning. *g* I am lazy tonight. But I will say, for the very first time, there was not a single second when David Rossi was on screen that I didn't like him. And by the end, I was honestly cheering for him.

Shocking.

...Oh, screw it. I'll do the rewatch now. I need to get this other thing out of my head.

( Everybody's falling in loooove.... )

A while back, I wrote a short Criminal Minds fanfic entitled "Two Pair of Aces."

In the spirit of remix, I gave another member of the fandom, jadesfire2808, permission to record it for a podcast project. And she has done so, and you can find the story and the podcast here.

I think that's pretty neat.

And now I have to go for a run.

Boy, what a beautiful morning. High thirties into low forties, clear and crisp, everything in bloom. Just gorgeous.

Two and a half miles this morning, and I did my first mile in 14:59. If you think I am smug about it, you would be right. Then the nine-minute loop of the park (I think it's actually longer than a half-mile, but gmaps pedometer says it's not), and then some stretching, and then mostly-walked the mile home in 16:47. I justify this to myself by means of the scorching (for me) time on the run out, the fact that I was going to stay home this morning, the fact that my shins and calves hurt, and sheer laziness. Also, it really is a pretty morning.

Climbing last night was better than Monday, despite ongoing lack of strength and soreness issues in my right arm. That traverse that I couldn't do and then I could do? I can't do it again, so I still have not finished that damned blue 5.7. Even though it's a short wall, it's tricky. I did however finish a fairly long 5.7 with a similar traverse that used to completely kick my ass (and I felt secure the whole time, though I had to stop and rest), and also a 5.7 and a 5.6 on the slab, both of which I have done before. I tried a 5.8 and couldn't get off the ground, so I fell back and did the 5.6 on the same wall, which is sort of a bunny wall overhang. It's overhung, but you can barely tell. Still, it will help make me strong enough that I can tackle the overhang on the black 5.7 that is my other project wall. The Jeff is after me to try a 5.7 on the tree wall that he likes. It looks like absolutely no fun at all, but I will probably adopt that one as a new project once I finish one of these other two. It has to happen sooner or later, right?

I have a hell of a bruise on the palm of my left hand. Wheeugh. No idea how I got it, either.

189.9 miles to Lothlorien.

In other news, I appear to be cured. Right. Not taking those pills any more. Man. It's been donwright pleasant and spacious inside my head for the last two days.

And now I need a shower and some food and tea and some work on "The Red in the Sky is Our Blood," which is standing at around 1000 words currently. Because hey, progress is good.

Cat: Monkey?
Monkey: *typetypetype*
Cat: Monkey?
Cat: *jumps up on the back of the monkey's chair*
Cat: Monkey. What are you doing?
Monkey: Hello, Cat. I am working.
Cat: Monkey.
Monkey: *cheek-pets cat*
Cat: Monkey.
Cat: Monkey.
Cat: Monkey.
Monkey: What?
Cat: Monkey! I want something.
Monkey: And what do you want, O Cat?
Cat: I don't know.
Monkey: Do you want a sunbeam? Do you want to share my chair? Do you want to snuggle?
Cat: Monkey! Fix my life.
Monkey: *waggles fingers* Your life is fixed.
Cat: Monkey! No, it's not.
Monkey: How can you tell?
Cat: For I am discontent.
Monkey: That's the ennui.
Cat: Ennui?
Monkey: Yes. It's what's wrong when there is nothing wrong.
Cat: ...that is such a Monkey kind of concept. Monkeys are weird.
Monkey: And yet, you have ennui.
Cat: I want a second opinion.
Monkey: Okay, you also have bad breath.

(Later)

Cat: Monkey.
Cat: Monkey.
Cat: Monkey.
Cat: Monkey.
Monkey: What?
Cat: Move over. I want that sunbeam.
Monkey: *moves over*
Cat: Monkey. Are you paying attention?
Monkey: No, I told you, I'm working.
Cat: Well, you should pay attention. I am snuggling you. See? I will arch my neck back over your hand, stare cutely, and say "Monkey!" until you pay attention to me.
Monkey: Awwwwwwww. *pets Cat*
Cat: WIKTORY!

So I begin to suspect that in addition to the crushing anxiety, those damned multivitamins were also contributing strongly to the general air of OMG I CAN'T WRITE and all my life is darkness, woe, and despair that's been going on around here.

Because I got just under 800 words on "The Red in the Sky is Our Blood" today, which is not, you know, a great day, but it's an okay one. And it didn't hurt. And I am not contemplating how much I suck, and how there is no story in here to tell, and who the hell am I to think I can write, and by the way, this is awful and who am I kidding, and I should probably just nip off and shoot myself now. And I can reread it without wanting to cry, and I sort of enjoyed the process of writing it. 

I'm not sure where the story is going, but I'm confident I might think up the next scene on my run tomorrow morning, and anyway I've drafted plenty of stories without knowing exactly how they were going to come together in the end, one scene or image or thematic tidbit at a time. I can do that; it's what revision is for.

And the actual writing process was not acutely painful. There was nothing about it that made me think I should give this up and get a job at Starbucks. I did not feel like I was just making shit up without reference to good craft or storytelling. I didn't have any huge bursts of inspiration or click experiences, but the actual process of writing was modestly pleasureable, in a spending time on quiet quality work of solid craftsmanship kind of way.

Well, hallelujah.

Maybe this career can be saved after all.

And now, I think, some yoga before archery.

tammy212 has just said a number of honest and powerful things about women of color and the current state of feminism. They're things that need to be heard, and I agree with them.

---

Last night on the way to climbing, I nearly hit a wild turkey on Route 17 in Portland. It ran across the road well in front of me, but because my visual recognition sensors insisted on recognizing the silhouette of snaky neck, darting head, long powerful legs ending in heavy claws, tapered body, and stiff, pointed tail as Velociraptor, I disbelieved and--for something like three fourths of a second, failed to hit the brake.

I'm used to seeing photos of turkeys displaying, or (in person) turkeys in flight. Those do not trigger my brain's pattern-matcher to say DINOSAUR! quite so strongly as this did.

I still managed to dodge it, in part because it quickly realized its peril and flew out of the way (wings spread, it no longer was so obviously a feathered dinosaur), but still. Quite the experience.

Apparently, with balanced neurochemistry comes also LJ-spamming. Sorry 'bout that.

In which Richard K. Morgan blogs, so I don't have to.

Yeah, what he said.