November 22nd, 2008

writing headbang

and now, the moment you have all been waiting for.


It's 9 am on Saturday morning. I have a fridge full of food, plenty of beer and coffee and fruit, and no plans for the next 55 hours. maybe I can trigger a nice state of hypomanic focus. What say we try?

I am going to shower, make tea, eat food, and finish this novel.

STATE OF THE CHILL DEATHMARCH:

words since 9:00 AM Saturday:
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday:
hours in deathmarch so far:
showers:
1
pages written:
pots coffee:
1
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
It Came From The Juicer:
alcohol:
drugs:
dancing:
handfuls of nutritional supplements:
1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex)
food:
stomach:

...here we go again.....

writing dust bible 'house of dust"

fifteen miles on the Erie Canal



STATE OF THE CHILL DEATHMARCH:

words since 9:00 AM Saturday: 554
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday:
hours in deathmarch so far:
4
showers: 1
pages written:
pots coffee:
1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
It Came From The Juicer:
Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. I think this experiment is unlikely to be repeated, she said mildly, as the result was devoid of any value except the medicinal. The beet greens tasted a little too much like fresh compost. But I'm sure it was good for me.
alcohol:
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: around the kitchen
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs.
stomach: equivocal
state of the catbox: freshly scooped
laundry situation: desperate

No manic focus yet, but my brain does seem to be letting me listen to music, which alleviates the pounding boredom somewhat. Also, my brain is talking to me and giving me useful words in interesting patterns, so that's a win.

I badly want a nap. going to find some lunch instead. I suspect this chapter (chapter 18) may be Zeno's Chapter and need to be subdivided.

I think the next thing to die in the juicer is some of these apples.

writing dust rengeek shakespeare

another day older and deeper in debt.

STATE OF THE CHILL:

words since 9:00 AM Saturday: 554 1008
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday: 0
hours in deathmarch so far: 6.5
showers: 1
pages written: 5
pots coffee: 1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
Pauses for research:
crystalline structure of nitrogen/oxygen in zero G (hexagonal). Anybody know what the cleavage of nitrogen rock would look like? What's it's luster? How about nitrogen snow?
It Came From The Juicer: Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. Apple lemonade (1 Granny Smith, 1 Macintosh, 2 Braeburns from the bruised fruit bin; one peeled lemon). Which was awesomely good.  
alcohol:
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: through the urge to nap
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs; layer cake;
stomach: equivocal
BPAL: Jacob's Ladder, of course.
mug: Quit Yer Bitchin And Write
state of the catbox: freshly scooped
laundry situation: desperate

writing dust bible 'house of dust"

i heard it in my sleep, a voice more dead than old

STATE OF THE CHILL:

words since 9:00 AM Saturday: 554 1008 1761, and the end of Chapter 18. One chapter to go. I am averaging the raging pace of 2/3rds of a page an hour. Yeah, somebody come tell me I'm a fast writer now.
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday: 0
hours in deathmarch so far: 9.5
showers: 1
pages written: 9
pots coffee: 1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
1 (white chai)
It Came From The Juicer: Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. Apple lemonade (1 Granny Smith, 1 Macintosh, 2 Braeburns from the bruised fruit bin; one peeled lemon). Which was awesomely good.  
alcohol:
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: in the light!
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs; layer cake;
stomach: solid
BPAL: Jacob's Ladder, of course.
mug: kitty in a file drawer
state of the catbox: questionable
laundry situation: less desperate, as I have hand-washed some undies

Sigh. Still no helpful hypomanic focus. You know, I'm stuck with the fucked up brain chemistry, you would think it could at least show up and punch the damned clock when it would be adaptive.

This book will not catch fire. You know, the entire novel has been The Dreaded Middle Of The Book. Every inch of it. I feel like I'm fighting the seige of Leningrad. But finally, here, in the last thirty pages, I am figuring out stuff I wish I had known on like, page 0. Which will come in handy in the second draft, because now the first draft is full of bracket notes.

In other news, I can tell that I'm grinding my way to the end of the novel, because all of those damned short stories that have been stuck like stuck things are showing up and flashing their ankles. But I did just figure out useful things to do with both "Snow Dragons" and "The Horrid Glory Of Her Wings."

Grind, grind, grind.

writing dust rengeek shakespeare

you gotta lift up every stone

Sigh. My brain stopped accepting the background music. Also, hello wall of BITCHY. Fair warning: right this second, I'm a nihilist, and at the mercy of wildly fluctuating brain chemistry. Don't tread on me.


STATE OF THE CHILL:

words since 9:00 AM Saturday: 554 1008 1761 2002
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday: 0
hours in deathmarch so far: 13.5
showers: 1
pages written: 10
pots coffee: 1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tisane:
pots tea:
1 (white chai)
It Came From The Juicer: Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. Apple lemonade.  Beet apple mango nectar. (Add something with acid, next time)
alcohol: La Fin du Monde and honey pepper vodka
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: in quiet desperation
tyop: "daubed with ask."
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs; layer cake; Barilla "Plus" angelhair with chicken, defatted chicken drippings, green peas, butter, and parmesan; gouda, cheddar, and grapes; more cake
BPAL: Jacob's Ladder, of course.
mug: still the filing cat
state of the catbox: I'm just not looking.
laundry situation: overwhelming

God, I'm crabby all of a sudden. Thanks, brain. No hyperfocus, but I can have a mood crash instead? Fuck you too. I want hack mode, not chemical nihilism. Crab crab. Tote that *(&)^)*&^*(& bale. A minor bipolar episode is no excuse not to go to work.

(I have been known to joke that the difference between a new diagnosis of BPD and having been living with it since it was manic depression is that after thirty fucking years, I've stopped taking any of my own brain chemistry seriously. It's like living with a bitchy cat, at this point. Ideations of self-harm? Boring. Meow, meow, meow. Shut up. I gave you the damned cat food and turned up the heat. Bored now.

Alienation is a coping model. Between cognitive strategies and anthropological training, I'm surprised I still have a belly button.)

Less than a chapter left to go, and the maladaptive brain chemicals have come to help.  Come on, brain, I took you running on Thursday and climbing Friday. You have no call for a freakout today. Get with the program, here. Go to work. You bore me.