Fantasy of the Day
So here’s the thing.
Publisher B has had one of my books for fifteen months (the one that keeps getting nearly published), and another book for nine months.
Every three months I send them a gentle reminder of my existence via email, and they’ve always been prompt in getting back to me with a vague, “We’re REALLY sorry and we’ll get onto that, honest.” Generally within 24 hours.
I sent them the usual email (complexified by the July conference, by my plan to pitch it elsewhere on 4 September, and by some editing I’ve done) on Wednesday 11th of this month – cunningly timing my email to fall immediately after a Tuesday (they have acquisitions meetings every second Tuesday, so in theory they could look at the email and say, “Oh my! That certainly has been a long wait. We could prep that book for next acquisitions meeting, since this is exactly the right time for making such decisions.”)
There’s a fifty-fifty chance that today is that next acquisitions meeting. And they haven’t replied to the email. At all. In 13 days.
Reasons for not replying to the email:
1. A crippling attack of severe deja vu, causing them to think they’ve already replied to the email (over and over again).
2. They swore a collective vow not to reply until they’ve made a decision (my personal favourite) – which will happen today!
3. Publisher B has been overrun by zombies.
It’s also possible my primary contact is sick (possibly due to all the zombies around) and hasn’t read the email yet.
So, in conclusion, my cunning plan to suck them into actually replying is clearly doomed. Cunning plans never work. So it’s time to sharpen the old axe and stock up on canned food.
The zombies. They are here.
#187: What’s in the box? Part 1
Some are born awesome. Some achieve awesome. And some have awesome thrust upon ’em.*
My mum likes to be mysterious. She sent me an email a few days ago saying she’d “had an idea” and I should “drop in so we could talk about it”.
Things are a little crazy at the moment, so I didn’t take the bait right away.
Today, however, I became utterly convinced she’d bought a kitten.** Yes, a kitten. Therefore, I was incapable of waiting any longer. I grabbed CJ and we went over there – just now, at 9pm at night.
Remember how my mum recently had my sister and I take out huge boxes of cr– treasured items — from her attic? Today there was more stuff. This time, it was from the depths of her newly-renovated cupboard.
One of my grandmothers left all – literally all – her jewellery to me when she died. She had a brain tumour at the time, so I interpreted the gift as more of a “caretaker” role and sat down at the time with my family to see what everyone liked. The rest I kept – 99% of it in the back of mum’s cupboard, since I’m not big on jewellery.
As you can see from the picture above, Grandma’s biggest weakness was jewellery. Let’s look a little closer, shall we?
See that box? It’s inscribed – to my great-grandfather, a banker, on his retirement on the 31st of May 1930. It’s silver.
See those rings? There are only two kinds of gemstones I can recognise with certainty: opal and jade. There are four opal rings and a jade ring there, on top. The bracelets are silver – you can tell by how tarnished they are. I dunno what the rest is – glass? plastic? zirconia? Haven’t the faintest! One of the rings in one of the individual boxes was originally bought (twenty years ago) for $250. Another is still in its original box from the jewellery store – so those two aren’t made of glass. It’s perhaps interesting that the other bracelet – the one made of some kind of yellow metal – isn’t tarnished at all. Or perhaps not.
But here’s the thing. See that really BIG box at the back? The one that looks like a pirate’s treasure chest, bound in brass?
Can’t open it.
We’ve collectively lost the key. My parents have tried several keys without success. CJ had a go at it too (with tools).
Still can’t open it.
It’s full, and quite heavy (although to be honest, that’s mostly the box).
So what’s in the box???
I really hope we all find out soon. (And yes, I’ll be paying for a jeweller’s kid to go to college when they value all this.) I hope it drives you as crazy as it’s driving me.
To ease your contemplatory torment, here’s a soothing rainforest pic from flickr.com:
Coming soon: Finding out what’s in that box. Finding out what it’s all worth. Maniacal laughter and cries of, “I’m rich, I tell you, RICH!!” Also, patting a lizard.
. . . and chatting to Charles Darwin. And the final Three-Ingredient Thursday. And I’ll be flying to Melbourne on Friday for a whole lot of high-calibre schmoozing.
*three points if you know who I’m misquoting – be precise.
**I could take you through my train of thought, but it’s way less interesting now I know I’m an idiot.
#185: Experiment on a cat
The myth: That if you tie something around a cat’s middle, it won’t be able to walk.
The video:
The conclusion is at the bottom of this post.
And here are some gratuitously cute photos to show Ana was not disturbed by her latest adventure (or WAS SHE???) Those are CJ’s feet, by the way.
There’s a three-track soundtrack to these photos, too. You’ll have to recreate it in your minds.
Track one: Me saying, “Hold still! I need another photo. No, another one! It’ll just be a second. Oh, stop whining.”
Track two: CJ giggling, then saying “Ow! Ouch! OUCH!” with great surprise.
Track three: Ana, purring.
And here’s your pic of the day, from flickr.com:
The result of the experiment: Myth busted. It’s true she walked sideways at first, but she was completely fine after that.
If this was really Mythbusters, I’d replicate the results – but since that would involve tying her feet together, I decided not to.
Conclusion: Myth busted.
#189: Vote
I just voted in Australia’s national election.
I waited in a little line, wrote numbers in boxes, and made a difference to governmental policy for the next few years. My vote could help save a few more refugees, or legalise gay marriage, or help slow global warming. No one shot at me, disinherited me, or used my name to vote against my wishes.
That’s pretty awesome.
And here to assist your contemplation of peaceful democracy – a picture from flickr.com (if you’ve lost track of the “Peace Hostage” tale, I just posted the story so far):
Tomorrow: Experiment on a cat (the video is prepped and good to go. . . although the experiment didn’t turn out the way I expected*)
*The cat is FINE**
**For certain values of “fine”.
“Peace Hostage” story so far
If you’d like to access this tale (and all the tales to come) in real time, you can either follow http://twitter.com/Louise_Curtis_ (the second underline needs to be manually added) or become a fan of “Louise Curtis Books” on facebook. Most stories run for a month.
PEACE HOSTAGE
The boar was so close I could taste the stench of it. I pressed the butt of my spear into the rocky ground and shouted a challenge.
The bleeding pig squealed and charged right onto my spear. It hit the crossguard and broke it off. I held on, staring at my death.
Tem covered my body with his. He screamed as the pig gored him. I crawled away, pulling him with me. Dad cheered as the pig bled out.
2
Dad and I lay bloated with pork at the door of our hut. Dad said, “That boy, he’s too stupid for you. Getting gored like that.” I blushed.
Dad turned serious: “Truly, Sawi, it can’t be. Tem returns to his tribe next month, or those Yah will kill us – like they killed your Ma.”
“I know, Dad.” He laid his hand on mine: “If Tem doesn’t heal up and go home, your brother’s life is forfeit – and all our lives too.”
3
“Chief!” screamed my best friend, Iv. Dad stood. Iv wept: “Your son! The Yah have murdered their peace hostage. We are at war.”
Dad ordered Tem and I inside. We sat silently, holding hands. Tem kissed each of my fingers. I said, “My tribe must kill you now.” “I know.”
Tem said, “Everyone dies. My life switched with your brother’s life bought our tribes ten years of peace. That is enough for me. I am full.”
4 – do day 5 very late tonight!
Dad stood guard while the village waited for him to decide the blooding hour, and who would make the kill. Tem and I didn’t leave the house.
“Sawi? Will it be your Dad who kills me?” “Don’t speak like-– why are you smiling?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me awkwardly, so I fell.
Tem kissed me, knocking our noses together. I gasped. “You fiend! My Dad’ll kill you—oh!” We dissolved into helpless giggles.
5
Dad saw me staring into our fire and said, “I will stop the blooding as long as I can.” I looked into his eyes, and bowed my head.
“Tem! Wake up!” He blinked at me. I said, “I’m going to go into Yah land – and save you.” He said, “Don’t get killed.” “Same to you.”
Tem said, “My Mum loves me. She’ll help you.” I held his hand, and kissed him carefully. We didn’t knock noses. I crept away into the night.
6
I found the ruined stream where my mother’s bones still lay, with many others from both tribes. The Yah bank was black with shadows.
No-one speared me as I crossed the naked grass. I stepped into the freezing water, dislodging old skulls so they rolled on down the river.
7
I dreamed of Tem’s death, and saw him burned until his bones turned black. My fresh water was half gone, and the thick air stifled me.
My foot ached and I found a bloody wound. I pulled out a piece of someone’s skull, wrapped my foot in banana leaves and walked on.
8
I hacked through a thorn bush and came face to face with a young boar. We stared at one another. I saw the rage redden its eyes.
The boar lowered its head and I slammed the handle of my knife onto its snout. It was young and fit – too young to be wily.
I slid through the trees, listening for the boar’s pursuit. It didn’t come. I knew I should return and bring it down, but I didn’t want to.
9
I ate my last food and wished I’d killed that stupid boar. Except I was the stupid one, because it definitely wouldn’t have had pity on me.
Iv always said the Yah drank their pee. She said they preferred it. I’d asked Tem, but he just looked at me funny. If only he’d answered.
I drank the last of my water, and decided not to drink urine. My Dad would never forgive me for behaving like a stinking Yah.
10
I woke up wet with sweat, and knew before I looked that my cut foot was red and swollen. Why couldn’t those stinking Yah live a bit closer?
11
Finally a coconut tree! Food and water all in one.
I tried to climb the tree and failed three times. My body was too weak. I lay back looking at the coconuts, and carefully drank my tears.
12
A face breathed into my face, smelling of mangoes. “Ehhh,” she said, and trickled water over my lips. I choked, and she held me up.
She bathed my swollen foot and gave me coconut porridge to eat. I lay helpless, and she sang lullabies. I said, “You’re Tem’s Mum.” “Yes.”
“I will carry you to our village. You will be safe with me.” She slung me over her back and stepped through the undergrowth with sure feet.
13
Tem’s Mum Jil tended me all day and night. Her sister Res fried fish and sweet potato for me. Jil went to speak to the chief.
Res shuffled closer. “Tem is alive. We will go and save him.” “Thank you,” I whispered. She said, “But your father must die.” “No!”
Jil and Res argued into the night, and I slipped in and out of dreams.
14
Jil said, “My husband will see you now.” “What? No! Was it him that killed my brother? I can’t defend myself!” “Hush, child. Wait and see.”
A huge man entered the women’s house and knelt by my mat. “I am Hof,” he said, “and I loved your brother. He was a mighty hunter.”
My throat closed with grief. Hof said, “Your brother was killed, but not by us. When you are strong, you will come and see.”
15
Hof served me food with his own hand, and no-one called for my blood. Many there showed the signs of mourning, but none showed signs of war.
I ate my fill, and slept until I was no longer tired. My foot was bathed hourly in cold stream water and honey, and began to heal.
16
I told Jil that I needed to see my dead brother. She took me deep into the forest and dug carefully under a stripped tree. I held his hand.
We brushed off the dirt and lifted my brother onto the dead leaves. I recognised the shape of boar tusk wounds, so like Tem’s side.
“Tomorrow I will go home,” I said, “and tell my people. Tem might still be alive, and I can stop the war before it begins.”
17
Jil snorted as we slept, and my eyes snapped open. Res knelt over me, knife in hand. I rolled and she missed me. She shrieked. “Filthy Bek!”
Jil grabbed for Res, but she missed. I snatched a gourd of water and ran outside. Three Yah waited for me with knives and clubs.
Hof burst from his hut bellowing with rage, and stood between me and them. I shoved Res and ran, but I heard Hof scream like a dying boar.
18
Two of the four angry Yah hunted me through the day and night and day. I climbed the trees and swung through the branches like a monkey.
One of the Yah urinated right beneath me. I watched to see if he drank it, but he didn’t. Too bad. It’s possible Iv was misinformed.
19
At last the Yah gave up the hunt for me, and I stumbled upon a grove of peanut and coconut trees beside a stream. I drank deeply and slept.
20
I washed my foot carefully and feasted on coconuts – and bananas. The fish in the stream winked at me until I caught one.
I slept again, and wondered if I should take my chance to stay far away from war – and live.
21
I dreamed of Tem again that night. He called to me in pain as the goring he’d taken for me festered and swelled like my ruined foot.
I began the long walk home.
#184: All day in a wired cafe
I love the smell of cliché in the morning.
Taking advantage of a day when I didn’t have any tutoring, I decided to snap out of my recent pre-conference chocolate binge by distracting myself with writing and pancakes (pancakes being less evil than chocolate, believe me). So I went to the Pancake Parlour, an underground cave of a cafe, and ate a Red Dawn for breakfast:
And yep, that’s bacon and cheese you see baked into the pancake.
Then I wrote. And wrote some more. One of my books has been under major reconstruction for over a year, and it happens to be one I’ve promised to one of my shiny new contacts at a big publisher, so I armed myself with bacon and entered the fray. It wasn’t pretty, but I emerged with a rough new (ish) beginning, which should be good to go in about a month’s time.
I also ate lunch – in this case, cottage fries (with sour cream), and traditional lemonade.
It’s an expensive way to go, but I’ve now gone 8 waking hours without chocolate AND I have a workable opening to “The Princess and the Pirate”.
Play along at home: Are you a student or a writer or someone who sometimes works from home? Try taking your laptop to a cafe and seeing if the new environment helps. Let me know!
And here’s your “Peace Hostage” companion pic for today, from flickr.com:
PS: While at the cafe, I received news that one of my stories was honorably mentioned in a short-short story competiton. This is the tale:
“Untitled”
They say it’s impossible to defy a dragon. But I manag–
Three-Ingredient Thursday is CURSED!!!
Another near-death experience this week. It’s becoming a habit.
In other news, I made fish and chips. I use the word “made” in its loosest sense.
I sprayed two trays with oil, and put the fish in one. I washed, peeled and cut the potatoes and put them in the other tray with more oil sprayed over the top. Then I cooked them all (fish on the top tray) for about 35 minutes at about 200 degrees celsius. Then I bathed them in salt and lemon juice. Soooooo gooooooood.
Sorry, what’s that you say? Something about a near-death experience? Oh yes, of course.
Are we sitting nicely?
So I was once again driving along the Tuggeranong Parkway at 100 km/hr. This time it was raining and misty, so visibility was low and the tyres had ADHD. Now LAST time I wrote about the parkway (precisely one week ago) I observed an idiot move into the right lane and almost hit a truck. THIS time the part of the innocent victim was played by yours truly.
It’s always surprising when a car suddenly veers into one’s lane at high speed. I hit the brakes and the horn at the same time, as well as attempting to squeeze our wagon into a smaller slice of lane. The car was determined to plough into me, however, and casually disregarded my frantic beeping. I pushed harder on the brake and watched with a certain curiousity as the back corner of their car narrowly missed the front corner of mine.
If I’d braked half a second later, I’d probably be in hospital right now.
By the rules of narrative writing, I should be the one changing lanes without head-checking next Thursday (which also happens to be the Final Three-Ingredient Thursday – this curse is neat, isn’t it?) and due to the rule of three (third time succeeds where two previous attempts didn’t) will cause chaos and death. The narrative would particularly benefit from me doing so while crossing a bridge on that same road, since a bridge further up partially collapsed last weekend. That’s some nice foreshadowing.
Fortunately I’m not superstitious.* Also, unlike apparently everyone else, I tend to look where I’m going before changing lanes.**
Feeling paranoid now? Here’s a calming rainforest from flickr.com
*Being narratively aware is a completely different issue.
**Which explains why I only ever crash into objects directly in front of me.
#182: Go to a 90th birthday
Remember Steve Irwin? Remember how he was so alive it was like he filled the whole room just by being on TV?
He’s got nothing on my grandpa. Nothing.
My grandpa recently saw a doctor because he felt “slightly puffed” when he went upstairs.
My grandpa asked my grandma to marry him on their third meeting.
My grandpa once held his breath under water (he and his friends had been skinny-dipping, so they were naked) while getting shot at by US friendly fire in World War 2 (a story that never fails to make him laugh).
My grandpa was terribly offended at his 90th when someone said he looked 80 (“WHAT!?! I don’t look that old at all.”)
My grandpa is learning Mah Jong – and his aim is to start telling his teacher, “No, actually, you’re wrong. THIS is how you play.”
He has/will have at least three parties this year, since he lives in Perth. CJ and I went to the Sydney one – with over twenty people, almost all of them relatives of mine.
Apparently it was the type of party at which I felt the need to show my muscles. I have no recollection why that was the case.*
And the masses gathered for the inevitable photo:
And here to give you a teensy bit of longevity yourself, is a rainforest picture from flickr.com:
*apparently it was that type of party.
#137: Invent your own alphabet (and write something in it)
This was a suggestion by a linguistically-inclined reader. After spending some time working on making new symbols, rediscovering phonetics, and so on, I decided to throw away the darn thing.
My new choice of language is an unwritten one. I’ve called it, “Girl Talk” and I think you’ll find it’s super useful in everyday life. Instead of sign language, it’s a language that relies entirely on subtle facial cues.
Here are just a few useful phrases:
1. Is today Monday or Tuesday? I hope it’s Tuesday. Oh, please be Tuesday.
2. I’m going to eat your braaaaaiiiiinnnnsssss!
3. Touch me, and I’ll punch you in the nose.
4. Ask me if it’s my “special time of the month” and I’ll punch you in the nose.
5. Chocolate? For me? Aww.
6. Take away my chocolate, and I’ll punch you in the nose.
7. Give me more chocolate, or I’ll punch you in the nose.
8. You’re looking at me. Is that because I look fat??? Wait. . . do I have a duck on my head??? I hate that.
9. Cower in fear, puny man-minions, for this planet will not be yours for long.
And here’s a simple translation of man speak, for comparison purposes:
1. I have a hat.
2. And a beard!
3. Ooh look! A shiny thing!
Play along at home: When in doubt, buy someone chocolate. Or a hat. Keep in mind that some will interpret it as an insult (“does this mean you think I’m fat???”) and punch you in the nose. C’est la vie.
And here’s today’s “Peace Hostage” companion picture, from flickr.com:
#180: Become an expert on something you know nothing about
This reader suggestion has been haunting me for weeks. How can I become an expert in a day (or perhaps a week), when becoming an expert takes thousands of hours?
Answer: specialise.
Originally I was going to become an expert on my tetras. I would be the Only One in the Whole World who could tell my four neon tetras apart.
Here’s someone else’s neon tetra photo, from wikipedia:
Unfortunately, after several months I still can’t tell my tetras apart (with one exception, because my pakistan loach bit that one).
So I tried to think of something else very specific – something that I’m obsessed with. Writing doesn’t cut it, because there are just too many writers more expert than myself.
The answer was so obvious: CJ.
I am the world expert on being married to CJ. In fact, since I’m the only girl he ever dated, I corner the market on dating CJ, too. That’s very cool.
So, as a service to you single folk out there, this is apparently how one finds and acquires the love of their life:
1. Dress up as Jack Sparrow and act like a drunken letch to a lot of your same-orientation friends (see picture at right).
2. Accidentally talk to CJ at pirate ball. Fall in love instantly.
3. Confirm CJ’s hotness by looking at photos the next day, because the only thing you remember clearly is laughing, and the feel of his arm (mmm. . . arm. . . )
4. Spend the next two months stalking him – personally, I visited a dance hall and two churches before I gave up and acquired his number off a friend of a friend.
5. Call him. Lure him to you with lies about how your writing group is desperate for new members. NB: Realise at this point that this has proven an excellent method for making hot guys become your bestest friend without ever noticing that you are, in fact, female.
6. Force your writing group to suddenly meet weekly instead of annually. Tell them to act natural. Watch as Ben takes a series of phone calls week after week, and says he has to leave. Immediately. End up alone with CJ each time.
7. Talk to CJ for hours in a series of cafes. Quickly cease bothering to pretend to write. Go to another ball together, wearing a dress this time (me, not him).
8. Stop inviting the rest of the writing group to the alleged writing days.
CJ: “Should we wait for the others?”
Louise: “Uh. . . they’re not coming. Would you like to have lunch here at the romantically-lit Pancake Parlour in a booth for two – and then walk over to Glebe Park and lay side by side in the emerald grass as a band plays love songs?” (I didn’t actually say all that.)
CJ: “Sure.”
NB: It was that day, Australia Day 2007, that CJ observed (after several hours) that Something Was Afoot. The euphempism “and then they lay down in the grass” wasn’t invented for nothing, kids.
9. Decide it’d be “cool” to have a night-time picnic on Mount Roger the day after Valentine’s Day.
10. When he asks you out and is so nervous he gets your name wrong, don’t tell him until after the kissing.
And voila! Marriage and babies, here we come. Here’s a photo taken a year after we met (at another pirate ball):
Play along at home: Err. . . no guarantees regarding the ol’ success rate of this method.
But in the meantime, here’s today’s “Peace Hostage” rainforest pic from flickr.com (the narrator’s body is buried near the stump on the left):
Coming soon: Experiment on a pet, three-ingredient thursday (dinner), that alphabet thing (for real this time), make music, etc
Felicity Banks 