S#20: Inexpensive Pampering (and, setting)
First, for those attempting to learn writing, a really interesting article on setting.
http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2010/05/what-makes-great-setting.html
Personally, my advice is to make sure you have an opening chapter that doesn’t require pages of explanation (but does have some fantasy element/s, so people have some idea what they’re getting into). As your plot develops, your setting can do so too. But the first conflict must be simple.
Also, when you name places and people, make them (a) pronouncable (b) different – especially the first letter, and (c) generally, not too long. Otherwise readers will feel confused.
Ditto if you introduce more than about three names in the first chapter (which is where titles like “Ratu Island” or “Captain Sol” come in handy, because the name tells you who or what they are).
And, of course, go nuts on the sensory detail (something that I generally do in the second draft, after the story is fairly solid).
Today’s awesomeness mission was: “Go to one of those hippy shops and buy yourself something weird – a homeopath treatment, or some incense or a dreamcatcher or a reiki massage or whatever.”*
I ventured into “The Body Shop” for one simple reason: The smell. I like just walking past that shop, with its cloud of soap and candles and pretend-fruit perfume.
Instinct drew me unerringly to the free samples of body butter (scented moisturiser). Oh heck yeah. There were about twenty different OPEN pots for me to sample. I sniffed the shea butter, having always wondered what it smells like. (The answer: nothing.) I carefully avoided the chocolate scented one (why taunt myself?) and gleefully settled on “dark cherry”.
Don’t you love adjectives? We don’t paint our houses orange, but we might just paint them “burnt peach”. We don’t wear puce, but we’re tempted by “wild maroon”. We don’t even eat just icing-sugar filled chocolate, we eat “vanilla surprise”.
But I digress.
I discovered after generously lathering my hands with dark cherry that it smelled like cheap red lollies. Oh well. Imagine my disappointment when I then discovered the hemp-smelling body butter and my hands were already so packed with flavour I’d missed my chance to smell like pot.
I wasn’t that disappointed, actually. The hemp didn’t smell nearly as nice as pot does.
And on that note, we end today’s entry.
But wait – there’s more!
Yesterday I received some extremely exciting, highly unexpected news. I will tell you what it is on Sunday, but right now you may as well know that (a) I’m not pregnant (nor trying to be), and (b) it wasn’t anything to do with any of my books.
But it was huge. Giggle-hysterically-for-several-days kind of huge. It has even momentarily taken my mind of chocolate.
And, from http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l2i1u42hR31qby2jko1_400.jpg, something wonderful:
*I confused this post with #12: Healing Stones, which is where this quote is from. Today’s actual mission – the one I did – was “Go to a shop like Lush and spend some time smelling everything. Then buy yourself a little treat.”
#12 is still to come.
#217: Le Smackdown
Girls are taught to be nice.
Screw that.
I have a mixture of private clients (who pay better) and agency clients. Other than getting less per hour, taking on agency clients means that I don’t get paid for the first lesson (the agency does – it gets an $85 registration fee for each term). There’s an up side to agency clients, which is spelled out in a form that clients sign: they must give me 24 hours’ notice of cancellation – or I still get paid.
Generally, if a student is sick or whatever, I am able to reschedule them onto a later time or another day, and I let that happen. I have one student who has done this over and over again, and when she did it twice in one day (yesterday, to be precise) I drew a line by only giving her a half hour lesson – ending at the time I’d agreed to end at when she first rescheduled. I also discovered (while chatting with her mum, since the actual student still wasn’t there when I arrived) that the reason she’s been rescheduling me is. . . her boyfriend.
Someone needs a smack.
Her mum seemed confused when paying me, having noticed how short the lesson was. I said it was because she’d rescheduled twice, and fled without elaborating (having already sat through one mother-daughter shouting match that hour). They’re good parents, so I hope they get their daughter on track and don’t try and blame me for being paid. We’ll see. I dread next week.
Last week I started lessons with a new student, Bobette. Since it was the first lesson, I wasn’t paid (although, naturally, the agency was). Today should have been our second lesson – for me, the first paid lesson. Instead, the family just called and cancelled (because the daughter is sick). I attempted to arrange another lesson “so you don’t end up paying”. No joy. They apologised. I said, “Don’t be sorry. One of the good things about working for an agency is I still get paid – when there’s less than 24 hours’ notice. But don’t worry – you can just pay me double next week.” Since it’s now fourth term (which often cuts off all tutoring in about week five, leaving me with about $50/week income until February), I made it clear that they had my sympathies – since they’d be paying for the lesson, as per the form they’d signed. After the conversation, I SMSed to say that if Bobette was feeling better at lesson time, I’d still come and tutor her.
We’ll see.
But the time for being nice has passed, and that’s a fact.
Have you been nice for far too long? Maybe it’s time to stand up for yourself, and see what happens. It’s quite likely I’ll lose one or both of the students, but frankly I know I’m a good tutor and I’ll easily find replacements with better manners.
To put things in perspective, here’s my brother in his “home office”:
Here’s something more cheerful: a clockwork jet pack designed by a Russian scientist in the 1920s.
#216: DIY therapy
On Saturday the 17th of July, after well-documented struggles, I scraped into the healthy weight range at 76.5 kilos (having peaked at a new record of 83.5 kilos on the 6th of April).
Shortly afterward, life happened. Quick summary:
Sydney Sydney Sydney Melbourne Brisbane Sydney Perth
And I weighed in yesterday at a whopping new record of 86.5 kilos.
I’ve learnt a valuable lesson about how travelling does not combine with any other type of work. It’s not surprising information – the only surprise is how powerful the effect is.
So now, with no more travelling this year and with repeated failure at my back, I abandon moderation (which I suck at) and dive into six weeks of pain. No chocolate, no lollies. Lots of exercise.
It’s been very clear for a long time that chocolate fills in the gap between my ability to be semi-functional and the point at which I have to consciously concentrate on not harming myself or others.
But it’s also clear that, given half a chance, I’d be morbidly obese. The kind with bacteria growing in the inaccessible folds of the fat. So with metaphorical blood pouring from various wounds, I re-enter the fray.
There’s no strategy that works other than going through the pain, cutting down as much as possible on anything resembling functionality (eg going to church, seeing friends). I’ve also been watching Bear Gryll’s French foreign legion show (8:30pm on SBS2) and the sheer pointless pain of it is wonderfully inspiring to watch – and, in my own way, to emulate.
So I’ve plastered my desk with inspiration messages. They’re not, for the most part, happy messages – but happiness makes me angry.
Here’s what they say:
don’t think
life and wealth begins November 30
pain is lard leaving the body
this is better than chronic health problems
this is better than diabetes
obese people smell bad
I weighed 65 only recently – and while mentally ill and hugely stressed
fat me = fat kids
it is harder for me, but I am stronger than statistics
60% of adult Australians are overweight
I have TV, books, cats, free massages, writing, flowers, food
food tastes better
By 2050, half of UK kids aged 6-10 will be obese
By 30 November, I will be better than average
this is worth fighting for
this saves around $50 every week – that’s $300
November: green jeans [ie I’ll be able to wear pants again]
I still have a great waist
do or die
good news: spring. beetroot. diet coke. corn thins and avocado.
hunger is normal
In other news, I googled “steampunk motivation” and found this, on geneticabnormality.com:
#214: Spontaneous Soccer & Steampunk Tips
I was at a lunch with CJ’s family when this happened:
A bunch of us adults – all the girls in heels – stood in a rough circle and kicked around a number of balls while a two-year-old screamed delightedly and ran around in the middle. His grandfather and a great-aunt played too.
It was marvellous fun, and I felt my heart beating in an old, familiar way.
Grass. A ball. My feet.
Yes. It was soccer, jumping and cavorting in the back of my mind.
Regular readers will be shocked to hear that I used to play soccer obsessively (in school, not in any official team – but within that semi-competitive zone I was well respected). On a couple of occasions since, I’ve played spontaneous soccer in a road or on a field. Due to uncoordination plus an enthusiasm bordering on the kamikaze, I generally play barefoot against boys in shoes – and generally end up bleeding (they end up bruised, so it seems fair).
Our little circle turned into a soccer game, and I took off my jacket and boots and felt the old love of the game come flooding back. I had to restrain myself rather a lot, but I still got to head the ball, and almost score a goal despite three defenders in my way.
Right now I’m scheming to get together with a few semi-coordinated friends and play for more than those few tantalising minutes. Could this be a new and effective chocolate substitute?
I’ll let you know.
In the meantime, here’s a link to Richard Harland’s steampunk writing tips. http://ripping-ozzie-reads.com/2010/04/30/tips-for-writing-steampunk/ and the clockwork angel picture that goes with it.
#215: Ritual
In the Western World, we lack rituals. We have a few for marriage, death, birthdays, and graduation – but not much to celebrate new life, or adulthood. The Catholic Church does ritual so much better than Protestants.
Today CJ’s cousin and his wife celebrated their baby son’s life by having him baptised.
This ritual had it all: Candles. Fire. Water. God. A priest in robes. An altar. And the grace-note of children and babies squawking or giggling at peculiar moments.
I liked the priest. He smiled when the babies interrupted him, he was uncomfortable but polite at having so many people ask him for posed photos with their children afterwards, and it was clear by the way some of the children ran up and hugged him (robes and all) that he was a familiar and safe place for them to feel special. I also know that he warmed the baptismal water so the babies weren’t uncomfortable.
Also, it was good to know that if the vampires attacked, we had a solid supply of holy water, and the necessaries to make lots more.
What a weight off my mind.
Here’s something a little steampunk for your Monday morning:
Coming soon: Bubbles! Diet Coke and mentos! Steampunk 21st party! Steampunk Earth Day! Spontaneous soccer! Other stuff!
Writing tips for when the book is written
Today’s awesomeness is getting given a GIANT CANISTER OF LOLLIES AND CHOCOLATE at the end of my final lesson with a student who just finished Year Twelve.
It was high quality, too – jelly belly jelly beans, liquer chocolates and other wonderfulness. All the wrapped chocolates had their labels on them, which shows extraordinary thoughtfulness of the part of my student and her mum. (In case you’re wondering, features included “Tuscan dream”, “peanut brittle”, “raspberry cream”, “Hazelnut and honey”, and many more.) Truly, epic awesomeness was had. (In unrelated news, my stomach hurts.)
Here’s three extremely relevent articles for when your book is all done and all edited. The second is funny, and every writer should read it. (That, and the equally funny entirety of http://slushpilehell.tumblr.com/.)
http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2010/09/11-questions-for-crafting-pitch.html
http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2010/09/10-ways-to-annoy-literary-agent.html
http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2010/09/why-oh-why-did-i-get-rejected.html
And, in a seamlink join between today’s writing links and October’s steampunk theme, here’s a great list of common steampunk motifs.
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1249132-SteamPunk-A-List-of-Themes
#213: Shopping Spree!
CJ and I have lofty savings goals for this year. We have just (barely) made it to halfway (and it’s October. Late October). We can still make it – but that means anything other than rent, bills, petrol, and food (in that order) is a no-no.
However, we recently discovered a $50 Kmart gift voucher in one of CJ’s drawers-o-stuff. We were also recently given a voucher to the Asian Bookshop in Macquarie.
So today, we grabbed our pretend money and hit the town.
Gift vouchers: Money that you’re not allowed to spend on rent, bills, petrol, or food. What’s not to love?
Several hours later. . .
We bought jeans (CJ) a blue top (me), two books, and M&Ms.
The books were both on our list of “subtly hint to relatives that these might be nice for Christmas” (and by “subtly hint” I mean we’re going to assign them to specific people). CJ especially especially wanted “Time of Trial”, the latest in Michael’s Pryor’s YA funny adventure series (which features at least one zeppelin, as I recall), and I especially especially wanted Sandy Fussell’s exciting, funny, and uplifting “Samurai Kids” series (I bought Book One: White Crane, so I can lend it to my students at once – all the rest are also on that list, because they’re all excellent).
Some of you are probably reading along here thinking, “Who cares about money? Where can I see more baby pictures?”
Here’s a new (and final, I swear) video for you guys.
The rest of you are wondering, “Who cares about babies and/or money? Where’s all the steampunk goods you promised us this month?”
These are for you.
Charles Babbage is a real guy who really invented the first steam-powered computer (and his lady love, Ada Lovelace, was the first to write a computer program). It’s now possible, for the first time in history, to build it. So that’s what the human race is gonna do. Yay us.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-11530905
And, Tor.com is having a steampunk month this month.
“Zeppelin Jack and the Deadly Dueller” story so far
NB: If you’re here looking for baby photos, you’re nearly there – just scroll down past this entry (or click on the “Daily Awesomeness” button on the left to make this entry disappear).
“Zeppelin Jack and the Deadly Dueller” so far:
1
Marm grabbed both of us boys by the collars, but Nip wriggled away. I trudged after her to the Foundlings’ Aid Office for my lecture.
“You are too easily distracted,” she said.
I wondered where my Gizmo had got to.
She said, “You’re demoted to fifth assistant cogmonkey.”
She’d demoted me to sixth last week, so I grinned. I wiped grease off my nose and found the offending cigarette behind my ear. Perfect day.
2
Gizmo whirred quietly on my knee as Nip retold the details of yesterday’s flight. Outside the theatre gondola, engine fumes stained the sky.
“Bored?” I said.
Nip said, “The play hasn’t begun.”
“Let’s sneak backstage and join in.”
Giz rolled under a chair, and we crawled after it.
*
“Parp!” said Gizmo.
We looked up into the pulley ropes, and saw a man with an eyepatch and a crooked neck. A dead, dangling pirate!
3
We snuck back into the empty theatre when the coast was clear. The body was gone, but Nip and Gizmo and I were determined to Find A Clue.
“Bing!” said Gizmo, dancing on one of its six radiating legs. I hurried over and saw an eye. It was some kind of metal, like my arm.
“It’s awful heavy,” I told Nip.
He stared, and said, “Jack! It’s heavy because it’s an auto-eye made of gold.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
4
Nip dodged a gear twice his size and flicked grease at it as it crunched onward. Zeppelin School for Boys minded an engine older than Marm.
“Was the pirate killed for his eye?” I mused.
Nip said, “More importantly, should we sell it?”
I pondered until Giz shrieked, “Parp!”
Metal teeth grasped my leg. I yelped and leapt into the air. The teeth kept turning.
Nip said, “You’re too easily distracted.”
“So I hear.”
5
Nip came running with the day’s paper: “Deadly Dueller Strikes Again!”
“It was him! The infamous Saturday killer killed our pirate.”
“He wanted the eye!” I said.
Nip’s eyes boggled: “I don’t want to duel him!”
“Me neither,” I said, “since I’d hoped he’d duel Marm one day.”
6
“I know where he kills them,” I told Nip.
He looked pale to me, but it’s hard to tell with Chinese kids.
“The roof,” I said, “so let’s go.”
*
Nip was quiet as we climbed the metal access ladders to the zeppelin roof. The wind whipped our hair, and Giz parped insistently.
Nip searched East, and I put Giz into my metal left arm and searched West. But when I returned to our meeting place, Nip was gone.
7
I put an ad in the paper: “I have your eye. You have my friend. Let’s meet at the same place at noon.” Hopefully Nip was still alive.
I stood on the vast canvas roof and heard the click-thump of a man with one metal leg. Nip shouted to close my eyes. I did. Giz didn’t.
The dueller said, “Stop messing about, kids. This is a vital clue.” He took the eye.
I asked Nip if he was hurt. “Nah. He gave me pork pie.”
8
Nip filed down a lump in a new cog. “Who are the alchemists?” he asked.
I said, “Dunno. Why?”
“The dueller kept telling me to stay away.”
We went immediately into unfamiliar territory: the library. All the books on alchemy were gone. The librarian said Marm took them.
9
We snuck off work and into Marm’s gondola. Her drawers were full of icky unguents and powders, and – for some reason – loaded mouse traps.
After binding Nip’s broken finger (luckily Nip didn’t have any metal parts, because those are expensive to fix), we found the books.
“Victory!” said Nip.
Giz said, “Bing!”
I said, “Now we read them.”
Giz said, “Parp!” and Nip fainted dead away.
10
I found diagrams of cool experiments. We stole giant canisters of helium and nitrogen. Something made me laugh maniacally for no reason.
“What happens if we mix them?” said Nip.
Giz said, “Parp!”
We crowded together on our bunk and unscrewed the lid of the nitrogen.
Nip giggled and fell asleep. “PARP!” said Giz.
I said, “My hands are soooo big. Look Nip! Nip?” My eyes closed.
Giz said, “PARP-PARP-PARP!”
11
When we came to, Giz was badly scratched from opening the vents.
Marm had her hands on her hips. “I TOLD you not to smoke,” she said.
I said, “We weren’t. We were studying alchemy.”
Marm blanched and left without another word.
Nip said, “She’s not angry – she’s scared.”
12
I found a note on my bunk. It said, “I know who you are and what you’re attempting. No more misguided mercy. We duel at noon this Saturday.”
Giz carefully examined the note. “Bing,” it said. I translated that as ‘Follow’.” We did – all the way to the dueller’s hideout – a home.
The dueller’s wife spotted us and invited us in for honey cookies. They were delicious. Then we left, wondering what to do.
13
We discussed our mystery at work. A gear malfunctioned, jumped its track, and came rolling to crush us both. We jumped out of the way.
Nip inspected the mess.
“Sabotage?” I said.
Nip said, “Yep – but not the dueller, since he’s already going to kill you on Saturday.”
“Parp!” said Giz.
Nip said, “Er. . . he’s going to TRY to kill you. Do you think his wife knows?”
“No-one who cooks that well could kill.”
14
Nip offered to teach me kung fu, since he was Chinese.
I said, “But you don’t remember your parents, so how could you–”
“I. Just. Know.”
Nip made me clean and wax our bunks for no apparent reason. Then he made me do it again. Why?
*
Finally Nip said I was almost ready. Then he punched me in the nose. I kicked him in the leg until he agreed to stop teaching me.
15
Nip paused in his cog-cleaning duties and made a face. “Did you just fart?” I denied the charge, and he threatened to show me more kung fu.
As I clambered onto the cog’s conjoined twin, I saw the cause of the smell. “Hey! There’s sulphur over here. It’s turning toward you, too.”
Nip said, “Mine’s got charcoal, and some kind of black stuff. It stinks like sh–”
I shouted, “Nip! RUN!” The alchemist’s trap met and BANG!
16
Despite Giz’s objections, I went to meet the dueller. “Thanks for trying to kill me yesterday. Did you get too scared to face a kid?”
The dueller paused: “Who tried to kill you? And how?”
“Alchemists, with gunpowder. Wasn’t it you?”
“No. I thought you were with them.”
He lowered his pistol: “I guess I’ll have to duel someone else. Like to meet tomorrow for home-baked pie and grandiose plans?”
Four hours old
Today and yesterday I posted at http://twittertales.wordpress.com about my sister going into labour and producing THIS:
There’s a different video over there (they don’t get this one until tomorrow).
This is her again with my hand for scale:
Babies: They make poo exciting.
#212: Visit hospital
Yesterday’s blog left you at 10:00am (after thirty hours of labour, including six hours of pushing) Monday morning.
Today’s blog is pretending to be written on Monday afternoon.
I knew something was wrong, so after trying the birthing centre I called my Mum, hoping she’d tell me I was being silly.
She really didn’t. She was frightened too. It’s never good to have your fears confirmed.
Now is as good a time as any to say that one of my best friends in Canberra had a baby last month. They’re all fine now, but she had preclampsia during labour to the extent that her organs began shutting down and she had to go into surgery.
Incidentally, if I ever want to figure out if someone has treated me badly (which is often difficult due to my messed-up brain chemicals), all I have to do is imagine the person treating my sister that way. On those occasions, imagining my sister in the same situation makes me instantly furious. NO-ONE is allowed to treat my sister badly or cause her pain. (What a shock Megan didn’t ask me to accompany her to the hospital. Apparently crying hysterically isn’t what good birth partners are known for.)
But she was in real pain – and real danger – and there was nothing anyone could do. So I sat at home and cried.
I called the birthing centre again, and begged them to tell me what was wrong.
Mum called me back saying there’d been a minor complication, and that NOW the baby would come any moment. Everything was okay!
The minor complication was that birthing centres are perhaps a little too focused on the mums’ peace and privacy, and had advised Megan to push “when you feel like it.” This resulted in Megan pushing too early (beginning at 4:00am, when she was close but not close enough), which slowed everything down (probably by several hours).
I walked to Helen’s house to get her number in case I needed a lift.
I returned home and cleaned some more, moving as if I was wading through honey, and keeping my phone within sight at all times.
At 11:30am, I received an SMS from my mum. It was a girl, and everyone was fine.
About half an hour later, I received an SMS from Jim saying the same thing. Old news, bro! You snooze, you lose.
A few hours passed, and then yet another Perth friend called to take me for an official visit by invitation. I was still dazed and shaking, and ended up causing her multiple trips, but she was very sweet. She was so respectful that she came to the hospital for me twice (each a round trip of over an hour), and didn’t go in herself.
I held my first niece on my lap and took this video. She’s four hours old here.
Most of the time I held her, she was sleeping deeply, barely stirring. Her head was as squashy as an over-ripe avocado and she flinched away from the slightest light (even with her eyes closed). I was stunned at how perfectly her nose and mouth and eyelashes and hands were formed.
The hair on her head is real, and will stay. It’s a family trait.
Jim told me she also had hair on her back – but that’s the kind a lot of babies have, that just goes away. (Or is it???)
As I write (we’re back in real-time now), the whole family is home and doing fine. Here’s them in hospital:
And this gorgeous photo was taken within the last twenty-four hours:
She was 3.55 kilos (that’s 7.8 pounds), 50cm long, and the circumference of her head was 35cm.
She does have a name, but I won’t be saying it publicly, so if you’re a real-life friend you can SMS me or CJ or my Mum or Dad for that.
Megan went through the entire experience without painkillers of any kind – not even gas. (She had stitches, too.)
She was kind enough to give me these two golden nuggest of advice:
1. Don’t eat corn just before going into labour unless you really want to see it again.
2. Use pain relief.
She also said that she got to a certain point and thought, “That wasn’t so bad” – and then had another eight hours of labour.
Unsurprisingly, it was the hardest thing she’d ever done. But also the most rewarding. To which I say, “Duh! Just look at that gorgeous girl!”
What’s that you say? You want another photo? Okay. This is her on my lap at four hours of age (with my hand for scale).
And now, after a day of travel and two days of hectic catch-up at work, I’m going to go and have a nice lie-down.
