S#42: Exercise
Yesterday, I went for a 1-k swim for the first time in about a month. It hurt (not the swimming, the physically getting into my swimmers part), but I did it. I’m on my way back into the healthy weight range lost to me when I decided to schmoozequest.
I wish I could figure out why chocolate is such a big deal. Why can’t CJ – or better yet, God – be the reason I get up in the morning? CJ is way nicer than chocolate.
I guess it’s the self-destruction aspect of chocolate that CJ lacks. So once again my thoughts circle and circle and end up at the dead end of mental illness.
I’m still glad to be eating healthily, despite the feeling of utter futility it brings on. Chocolate doesn’t erase the futility, it just gives a brief illusion of pleasure and/or the false anticipation of pleasure. But even the sane despair when faced with dieting. For a crazy person, I’m doing marvellously. I’m sure I weigh less (for my height) than the average Australian woman my age. Which means I still suck, but not as much as others do.
In other news, I’ve just finished re-reading “Heroes of the Valley” by Jonathan Stroud. It’s young adult adventure fantasy, and it is excellent.
There are three main elements of every story – characters, plot and theme. The two main characters in this tale are Halli and Aud. Halli is a rather stumpily-built second son of the local Arbiter, who longs to be like the mighty heroes of old, who slew the ferocious Trow and laughed at danger and death. Too bad he lives in a time of peace – and isn’t much of a fighter, either. Aud’s fate is to be married off, and she’d rather be eaten by a Trow (not that she believes they exist). She’s smart, brave, and can even appear to be well-bred when she chooses.
I won’t talk about the plot, because it’s best to just read the book. Trust me: it’s exciting and surprising. The theme is heroism – what it looks like from afar, and what it looks like up close. I was bound to love the book for the theme, if not for the excellent writing.
It’s also very, very funny – the heroic tales each chapter are not just a highlight, but part of the ongoing tale. It’s wonderfully macabre – Halli’s nurse tells him blood-chilling tales just before telling him to go to sleep, and there are hundreds of brilliant one-liners, too.
Recommended for: Anyone who can handle fairly mild horror (say, Buffy level). Especially storytellers, or people like me with a secret longing to be a hero.
Rating: PG for violence and horror violence
Speaking of horror and violence, here’s another geekologie robot pic (unfortunately, yes it IS real):
S#101: Talk to Steff
Today is Tuesday. That means Publisher B might reply. It’d sure be nice, since they have two of my books – one of which they’ve had for sixteen months. (3-6 months is a normal response time – although two other big publishers have taken 9 months just for the first few chapters – which, by the way, they rejected without requesting more and without giving comments).
For most of this year, I’ve sent a polite email to Publisher B just once every three months, and my contact person has replied within 24 hours with vague (but nonetheless useful) assurances that the books are, indeed, still under consideration. In August I emailed as usual – no response. Two weeks ago I emailed again – still no response.
Steff Metal and I originally met because of a mutual connection to Publisher B, so I wrote to her with my woes, hoping she’d have some insight. She wrote back. What follows is her response, but with chunks taken out and names changed. And I admit, I feel hugely better. This email says a whole lot about the writing life that I wish wannabe writers knew BEFORE they started writing novels (that, and the news that successful full-time writers tend to earn around $10,000 a year – non-successful writers tend to earn negative amounts).
Hiya!
Urgh – that’s a very awfully long time. I’ve never gone through [the specific person].
I think they’ve lost your email somehow, if they don’t reply. I would email after two weeks, because it’s out of their pattern and you have a history with them. Just a polite email saying you sent an email before but you don’t think they received it.
[Details of various frustrating things happening with her steampunk novel, including a very vague rejection – their advice was to write another book – and another publisher not replying to her emails.]
We haven’t been emailing much, have we! I think it’s cuz we read each other’s blogs so we kinda feel caught up. The writers conference sounds amazing. I need to go to more of those – more networking. Swooning with jealousy at all those contacts you made – you were so brave! I’m gonna start when we move to Germany – there’s huge conferences in the UK.
Why do we do this to ourselves, again?
xx
Steff
————–
And here’s a picture of my new favourite cat EVER
How much do YOU love the internet?
Ubergeeks John Scalzi and Wil Weaton have done something wonderful. This:
Other than writing stuff themselves, they had various other (in)famous people contribute, plus they ran a competition (based on the picture). Which I didn’t win.
The book itself is, technically, free. You can go read it at http://unicornpegasuskitten.com/. But since the whole point of the thing is to raise money for lupus sufferers (Wil and John paid for everything out of their own pockets), see if you can donate $5. Or maybe more.
Because sometimes, it is lupus.
However, here’s the story I wrote. All things being equal, the stories from the book are better than this. So go click on the link and enjoy.
“Kitten Spit”
I woke as my face was scraped raw by warm sandpaper coated in slime. Something monstrous had found me, and its spit dissolved my skin. I opened my eyes to a view of needle-sharp teeth, and gagged at the stench of salmon as the thing yawned.
“Good kitty,” I croaked.
It was taller than me, even without the wings spreading from its shoulders. Since my cave had a prudently small opening, only its head could fit inside – if it angled itself so the horn on its forehead didn’t scrape the roof. I scrambled back before it could lick me a second time. Blood dripped down my neck. I healed myself by magic before the thing attacked again.
“Where did you come from?” I said aloud.
“Well,” came a voice from outside, “when a unicorn and a pegasus and a cat all love each other very much –”
“No I meant—oh actually, that does answer one question. May I ask who you both are, and what you and your – er, noble steed – are doing here?”
“Are you the orc magician?” The voice was curiously flat, as if the man was mortally exhausted.
My heart sank. Even among other magicians, that question always led to an awkward conversation followed by an even more irritating battle. I had thought living on an active volcano would discourage further inquiry. “Just because I have green skin, pointy ears, and incredibly well-developed muscles doesn’t mean I’m going to kill you.” Under my breath I added, “Like all the others.”
The kitten retreated as someone tugged on its reins. Not for the first time, I was glad I slept in full armor.
A human stood by the lava river outside my cave. Other than his sweater, he was unarmed.
I took an involuntary step backward and hit stone. “That’s –”
“Yes,” he said, looking away. “The clown sweater. I need you to kill me.”
I looked at his young face and saw the deep worry lines of a man possessed by the most diabolical fiend of our time. “But. . . you’re immune. And besides, we’ve just met.”
“I’m Wil.”
“John. But –”
“I’m not immune.”
“Then how?”
“Sometimes, it sleeps.”
“Can you take it off?” I asked. “Can someone take it off you?”
His eyes glittered, but he held himself together. “I used to have three brothers.”
“Ah. So I’m dead then.”
“No! Kill me first and save your life. And she’s not a monster. She’s Petunia, and she just likes to play.” He pulled down a golden spear from her back. “Take it!”
“Don’t make me do this. Killing people is so. . .”
All colour fled his face, silencing me. “It’s waking up. The clown. It’s coming! Help me!” I saw his eyes turn mad just before he leapt onto Petunia’s back. He lifted the spear and smiled the serene smile of the deranged.
The awkward-conversation part of our friendship was at an end.
I grabbed my axe and shield and ran outside. Wil seemed decent. The least I could do was sever his head from his body.
Petunia leapt into the air and bore down on me with her claws splayed. Magic filled me, sparking from my fingertips. I jumped straight into Wil and we both tumbled to the rocks. Petunia crouched to watch us, switching her horse’s tail from side to side in excitement.
“Unicorns,” I thought frantically, searching for a weakness. “Good for looking picturesque with virgins. Not helpful right at the moment.”
Wil leapt at me, drooling with fury. I parried and his spear clashed against my armored shoulder.
“Pegasuses,” I thought. “Pegasi? Good for traveling long distances fast. But flighty.”
Petunia’s eyes glowed with mad kitten joy. Her pupils darkened and she waggled her rear end, ready to spring.
Wil spun with impossible speed and I ducked just in time. His foot connected with my head, but I magically dismissed the bright stars of concussion before they got me killed.
“Kittens,” I thought. “Nice to look at, if you like that sort of thing. Attracted to shiny things. Also a source of pure, unadulterated evil.” I blinked, and knew what to do.
Luckily for us, Petunia was already in the mood to play.
Wil lunged for my throat and I didn’t have time to dodge naturally. My magical defenses shot me fifty feet into the air. I had time to look down as I fell, curious to see if gravity would get a chance to kill me before the rest. Or perhaps I’d think of some further magical brilliance. Either way, I looked forward to finding out what happened next.
Petunia sprang at me. She batted me sideways in mid-air, knocking me into my cave. I landed on nice soft armor and watched with quiet surprise as magical sparks healed my broken legs. With one hand, I pointed to Wil. Pretty blue sparks danced an irresistible pattern on the clown’s red nose.
Petunia took the bait. She pounced and pinned Wil to the rock with one paw, biting into his sparkly chest as he screamed in pain and rage.
She spat something white and red and grinning into the lava river, where it dissolved. Then she sat on Wil’s legs and licked the hole that used to be his chest.
I staggered outside, dragging up what magic I had to try and heal him. Sparks flew off me into him, building new organs, growing new skin, and filling him with new blood.
It was no use. Petunia’s saliva ate through him faster than I could build him back
Wil didn’t move.
“The sweater is dead,” I said, falling on my knees beside him. “Long live the sweater.”
Petunia yawned emphatically and touched him with the tip of her horn. “Unicorns,” I thought. “Handy for fixing poison. Does that include kitten spit?”
THE END
PS This piece of awesomeness comes free of charge. Your regular schedule of Daily Awesomeness will continue tomorrow.
PPS Please do spread the word about this book. If you’ve ever had a disease of the immune system or known someone who has, you’ll understand why.
#103: Hug the Internet
If I ever want to REALLY waste time, there are two places I love – tvtropes and cracked.
Warning: NOT suitable for children (but probably okay for most young adults – a lot of very unpleasant things get mentioned, especially on cracked, and some rather MA stuff is shown on occassion).
Warning: You will be sucked into a never-ending vortex of informative hilarity.
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AirplaneOfLove
And from geekologie.com (which I highly recommend), another killer robot:
How zombies feel
ie hungry for braaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnnsss
I’ve finally begun my brave attempt to recover the healthy weight I’d reached before the epic schmoozefests of August/September. Today is day three. The hunger pangs began at 11am on day one, and the blacking out (when I stand up from sitting or lying down) started yesterday, and will continue for a few days. The stumbling with fatigue began today. Yep, it’s a typical diet. My self-esteem and sense of purpose is lifting fast, so – assuming nothing at all breaks my concentration – all is well.
I don’t know how much weight I gained as I held myself together by sheer force of chocolate for weeks before and after the conference. I’ve said five kilos elsewhere, but I know it was probably more than that. I don’t dare weigh myself, at least not until I know I’m doing a little better.
In two weeks and two days I’ll be going to visit my sister. There will be a LOT of chocolate for those eight days. I’m glad to have this window of opportunity to regain some ground – and seeing my sister is far less stressful than paying loads of cash to try to suck up to people I don’t know (which I won’t have to do again as an unpublished supplicant for several years, if ever).
I do feel like curling into the fetal position until then, but that just shows I really am losing weight. Here are two pictures that say everything that needs to be said. The first represents what I was eating every single day for weeks. The second (diet coke and a corn thin with avocado) represents my daily snacks at the moment. My meals remain exactly as they were.
And that, for me at least, is how it’s done.
S#91: Signature Cocktail
“Pull all the liquor bottles out of your cabinet and line them up on the bench. Now, go to the fridge and pull out all the liquids and fruits. Do the same with the pantry. Now, line up all your shot glasses and start mixing! You’re searching for the perfect signature cocktail. This involves lots of taste-testing. Be daring, be crazy. Give your drinks a wacky name.” -steffmetal.com
Here’s what I found:
Alcohol: Cask cooking wine (red), butterscotch schnapps, blue curacao, and a rather strong ginger dessert wine.
Mixers: Milk, lemonade, diet coke.
Good ideas: Lemon juice, vanilla essence, honey, cinnamon, nutmeg.
Bad ideas: Custard powder, sweet soy sauce, glucose syrup, 3/4 dodgy banana from several days ago.
I screwed my courage to the sticking-place and started with the red wine – mostly because I don’t like it.
Step one: Taste wine. Result: Still don’t like it.
Step two: Add butterscotch schnapps. Result: instant stomach cramps.
Pause.
Step three: Add lemon juice. Result: Coughing, sticking out of tongue as if to scrape off the taste.
Pause.
Step four: Carefully heat glucose syrup (the stickiest substance known to man) in a small dish until it’s actually a liquid.
Pause.
Sigh.
Step five: Realise putting glucose syrup in the delicate wine glass will almost certainly result in destruction (or glucose highlights to every future drink from that glass). Instead, as the glucose re-thickens (highly reminiscent of the Terminator, fyi), pour the wine over it and mix as well as can be hoped.
Sigh. Roll eyes. Wrap the resulting mixture around the end of a spoon and eat it.
Result: Very like a sour lolly with 90% of the flavour surgically removed.
Conclusion: I don’t drink. . . wine.
Name of creation: Savignon Blerg.
After a brief recovery period, I moved on and blended together the banana, milk, custard powder, and more schnapps – with a sprinkling of nutmeg on top. It was like drinking a banana milkshake, eating a butterscotch lolly, and enjoying a flour-top bun, all in one harmonious mouthful (it’s the raw custard powder that gives it the sense of a flour-top bun).
Conclusion: This was a win.
Name: Naughty Picnic.
I moved on to my next adventure, which I’d already named “Black and Blue”. See what I mean?
Step one: Try some blue curacao. Result: It tastes of blue. Like really, REALLY blue. Sweet and fake as a girl you pay to be your friend.
Step two: Feeling tender, you add vanilla next. Vanilla goes with everything, right? Result: Wrong. So very wrong. One extra iota of sweetness was more than Miss Blue could handle. I like sugar, really I do, but this tasted like sugar after it had been thrown up for being too sugary.
Step three: Hastily add coke. Coke will make it better. It has to. Result: It did. Who knew? Coke – especially diet coke – has such powers of disgustingness that it can absorb almost anything. Bizarelly, I think it tasted better with blue curacao and vanilla essence in it, as if they filled in the blanks taken out when it became a diet drink. Odd.
Ah, if only the tale ended here.
Step four: Add sweet soy sauce. Result: The drink suddenly has a meatiness to it, as if it wasn’t quite solid before. The soy sauce, while adding to the cloying sweetness, gives the drink a dark and brooding presence, much like Sauron’s enormous burning eye in Mordor. . . watching. Waiting. Killing.
In this metaphor, the vanilla essence represents the friendship of the fellowship (the one small good thing), the blue curacao represents the false/fragile goodness of the parts of Middle Earth where the killing hasn’t started yet, and the diet coke represents Sauron’s power – omnipresent, all-consuming, and Just Not Right.
Finally, I moved on to arguably the riskiest endeavour of the night: the ginger wine.
Step one: Gird loids.
Step two: Taste ginger wine.
Step three: Feel manly for not coughing this time. Congratulate self. Wish CJ had been in the room to see.
Move on.
Step four: Heat honey in microwave until it’s very runny. Mix with the ginger wine. Result: Just like that, the sucker punch of the ginger wine appears to be neutralised. It’s more like those lemon and honey concoctions grandma made when you had a cold. Realise you put in too much honey. Move on.
Step five: Add lemonade. Result:
Pause.
Step six: Sip it again. And again. And a bigger sip.
Pause.
Smile.
The darn thing’s delicious! It’s like ginger beer! The experiment has yielded a positive result!
Yay for ginger winebeer. I have a friend called Lee, so I named it Ginger Lee in her honour.
Step seven: Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Result: Meh. Better without, but it’s still delicious.
Step eight: Call CJ. Smile ominously as he tries everything. Smile proudly as he enjoys the Naughty Picnic and Ginger Lee.
Conclusion: Win and win.
I apologised for putting too much honey in the Ginger Lee.
“It IS like ginger beer,” he said happily. “Made by bees.”
I put more wine and lemonade in it, and he drank some more, but said he really liked the honeyer version. Then he discovered more honey in the bottom of the glass.
In more ominous news, I saw “Predators” last night (I say “saw” – in reality I watched perhaps half of it, and had whispered conversations with CJ about what was going on the rest of the time). It was quite stressful, and I was quietly impressed.
Then I came home, and it was night, and I had to take the rubbish out.
I moved the wheelie bin near our front door for easy access, glad that we recently replaced the sensor light out the front.
I went and gathered all the rubbish.
I opened the front door – and RIGHT THERE BEFORE ME was an animal face looking at me from pure darkness; pure black pupils and white fur and silence.
Darn cat sat on the darn wheelie bin waiting for me until the darn sensor light turned itself off. (But WHY?!?!)
And with that thought, here’s today’s killer robot, and yes it really is from geekologie.com (a site I now love – go look at them and you’ll see why):
S#34: Krieg up your wallet
It was steffmetal.com that inspired the project of awesomeness you see before you. Which is interesting, since Steff Metal is primarily a heavy metal blog, and this. . . isn’t.
However.
Here we are.
To this day, I’m not entirely sure what krieg is. (Perhaps, given my musical taste, that’s the point.) But I have a notion Tim Burton is krieg.
So here’s my new wallet (and some daisies. Are daisies krieg?)
And here, celebrating another day in the life of everyone’s favourite killer robot cat, is something from geekologie (I think – I really should check that), that is krieg, brOOtal, and trOO):
Maybe being krieg has more going for it than I realised.
“Killer Robot Cat” story so far
1
My new cat Fi finally arrived. It’s amazingly cute and fluffy considering how long it took me and the house PC to put together.
Fi has a bell (even though it’s programmed not to hunt), so when it fell down the stairs just now I heard, “Tinkle, thump, fizz.” All good.
Fi fetched a piece of junk mail for me. Good kitty! My phobias prevent me leaving the house, but it’s okay now my house is so high-tech.
2
I woke up last night to see two glowing red eyes. Fi must have thought I was ill, since she was pawing at my face like she was concerned.
Just think – if I’d stopped breathing, Fi would have known right away! How reassuring. As soon as I woke up she went and ate her din-dins.
3
I started wearing Fi around my neck as a white and tortoiseshell scarf with my yellow dress. It nibbled on my neck and purred. How cute!
More junk mail, so Fi went again. I always feel sure that a horrid monster will jump out at me if I walk to the box. Silly, right?
4
My postie, Bec, brought this week’s personalised mail over – she knows about my condition. Fi wound around her legs and almost tripped her.
Bec scowled: “I don’t like cats.” “It’s not a real one – it’s a robot. It’s so realistic it even eats meat!” “I don’t like robots, either.”
5
I laughed as Fi stalked a magpie outside. Then she climbed the tree and ate three baby birds. I ran to switch her off. My PC said, “No.”
I yelled, “What do you mean? Switch off the cat – it’s malfunctioning.” “You’re not well,” my PC said, “and the cat and I are here to help.”
OK. My cat is a killer and my house is a patronising git. I swear there was an override program somewhere. In a minute, I’ll remember where.
6 – SWITCH twitter and facebook!!!
Logged on to twitter with my USB and found out the house had posted a death notice for me. Oh, that can’t be good. But facebook is still OK.
7
Woke up with two fluffy paws across my mouth and nose. I punched the cat across the room and it didn’t stop for a second. It wants me dead!
I grabbed a shoelace and dangled it until Fi’s cute files took over and she batted at it. When she rolled on her back to play, I ran.
I’m in the bathroom. The electronic lock refused to work, so I wedged a chair against the knob. All I have is my laptop and USB modem.
8
Every so often Fi walks past (tinkle tinkle) and scratches at the door with her reinforced-steel claws. I know my days are numbered.
It’s just toying with me, like a cat playing with its. . . oh. Its food. Robot cats still enjoy feasting on the flesh of their victims.
9
I had an idea, and turned on all the taps. Perched on the toilet, I called, “Here, Kitty Kitty Kitty. Come see what I’m doing.”
Fi didn’t respond. I found an email in my inbox: “We’re not stupid, meatwad. Love, your automated home care centre.”
I left the taps on, hoping. But after three hours, I slipped and fell. With all the electronics around, the shock knocked me out.
10
I awoke sopping wet, with a badly burnt foot. The PC had been kind enough to cut off my water supply. Good, but uh-oh. I needed food, too.
I heard purring, and was almost certain it was the soporific purr of Fi in napping mode. So I crept from the bathroom to the kitchen.
I grabbed as much food and water as I could, then tiptoed back. Suddenly my PC turned my ipod on. I ran. Fi smacked into the door behind me.
11
I saw Bec pause at the mailbox as usual. She always glanced at the house as she put my mail in, daring me to get it myself before Saturday.
This time she didn’t look up. She put a large parcel in the box and rode off without a wave.
Bec knew – and she’d given me something. All I had to do was get it. I began to shake just thinking about it. Plus I’d have to get past Fi.
12
Bec dropped a postcard at my mailbox. I noticed the back of her bike was empty of mail. She was ready for me to leave the house – to flee.
I didn’t go. It wasn’t even the fear that stopped me. I was mad. My cat and computer had taken MY house, and I was going to take them down.
13
I waited until I heard Fi’s sleeping purr. She couldn’t change her programming – but I could change mine. I climbed out the window.
The grass tickled my feet and I almost laughed aloud. It was strangely comforting to know that a monster really could leap out at me.
I got the parcel and crept back, squeezing through the window. Take that, robots! Then I hyperventilated until I passed out.
14
Still shaking. I hoped the box could tell me how to shut down Fi and my home PC network. It didn’t feel like books, though. And it sloshed.
I ate raw two-minute noodles and beef jerky. Fortified by my meal, I opened my parcel. It was matches. And petrol. Lots of petrol.
15
I woke up smiling, and it took me a moment to realise why – robots can’t smell. Suddenly I wasn’t shaking any more.
I spent all day planning how to burn down my house. I soaked toilet paper in petrol, and soaked that into the walls.
Fi scratched on the door without stopping. She wasn’t playing any more.
16
I saw the crack in the bathroom door the instant I woke up. Time was running out. Fi was purring loudly, watching me as she clawed the door.
I poured petrol on Fi’s head. She shook herself, and almost bit off my finger. I just hoped she didn’t wash herself like other cats.
[much later]
The door broke. I kicked Fi against the wall and ran, making for the living room. We charged around the living room, kitchen, and hall.
17
I stomped and kicked and hurled myself away from Fi’s snapping jaws, growing more exhausted each hour. My strength faded fast.
Fi collapsed. One of her eyes blinked red, and I realised she was low on battery. She was wireless, so I didn’t have long.
I barricaded myself in my bedroom as my ipod played reproachful country and western. When the door was wedged tightly, I collapsed.
#200: Documentary
I’m still working my way through Ben’s suggestions of awesomeness. I’ve chosen to interpret this one as requiring any visual media – not necessarily film. So I have created the following two pictures, which I call: “The Writing Life”. It really tells you everything about my daily life.
1. Morning.
2. Afternoon/Evening.
In other news, I’m almost ready to send “The Princess and the Pirate” to Publisher D, which means I have no urgent writing to do (I estimate they’ll give their final yes or no in 6-12 months, given I’m only sending the first chapters). My only polished book not on someone’s desk is “Farting My ABCs” and the publisher I want – H – is currently closed to submissions. So I can slack off now, if I want to.
It’s been almost two weeks since I arrived back from the recent schmoozefests, so I’m pretty well recovered. From tomorrow, I’ll be eating properly again. It’s good timing in terms of my womanly cycle, how much stuff is happening with work and family and friends (ie not much), and my writing (I write MUCH less without chocolate). I’ll be visiting my extremely pregnant sister in early October, so that’ll ruin everything, but fluctuating weight is better than a continuing increase.
I rarely get nightmares from my writing (one reason I don’t write much horror). But I had one the other night about a giant Japanese robot spider. Then Ben sent me this, from http://xeai.com/public/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/l08_5072.jpg
Felicity Banks 
