Tag Archives: gingerbread project

all about that bass.

it’s like a new music-a-palooza around here. Last post I mentioned The Blood of Others, and my William, and then alla sudden all the music in music land was released – new Dead When I found Her (OMG) and which does not ignore Michael’s love of Skinny Puppy, but then just when you think you’re onto this album, it changes into something different.

Randomly, Rotersand released a new album and the Gothiscles showed up again in my inbox (and I need to go download them), and it’s like a dance music wonderland around here.

I went to see Dr. Strange, and yes the orientalism is a bit much, and there’s no good reason (despite how good she is) that Tilda couldn’t have been played by someone else, but I am honestly not sure how they would have gotten away from the mystical asian stereotypes in that film. Cumberbatch was great, and my Mads (hubba hubba) was pretty hilarious doing martial arts, when in my heart he is always eating half-raw meat in a very expensive suit. (FANNIBAL).

I sent my wee short story off to the market, and so shall soon hear on that. I’m editing a book for a friend, working on Gingerbread, and The Mourning Wolves and generally not understanding why it is so dark out.

 

maybe it’s the tea.

Two weeks and a day ago i bought gerbera daisies at the IGA. Thought it was a Sobey’s because I want the free breadknife that comes when you collect the stamps, but apparently just because you are owned by a thing doesn’t mean you get the benefits of the thing.  The daisies, purple and yellow, smaller than the width of my palm and stored in a canning jar, don’t seem to want to wilt. It’s winter, anyway, and they’re up and sturdy and taking up the same amount of space as they did on the day i brought them home, when i was walking around the grocery store, mostly numb and crying.

I miss Dexter. I miss his little chirpy face. I miss his obnoxious chirps and his little fuzzy bum and his wet-bird smell. I miss the way he would grow 3 sizes when he was happy to see me, and I and his tilty-sleepiness when he would sit on my laptop because it was warm and try not to topple over while doing the snoozy head bob. I miss how he would fall asleep in my hand because all he did was sleep because he was old and didn’t want to tell me he wasn’t feeling well, so he did his best to look strong and happy. He pooped and he ate and sometimes he chirped and he never looked scared and tried, always to climb to the highest part of me because that’s what birds are supposed to do. Be High.

He was a really good bird. I know we’re supposed to love our pets. I know we’re supposed to tell the world that they’re the best pets, that no other pet in the history of pets was as good as This Pet.

But, seriously. Dexter was a fucking great bird.  I can’t tell you how much I miss him.  I went to pick up his tiny little cremated bits and it was all fine and dandy until I walked out of the veterinarian’s office and exploded with grief.  5, 480 days, minus vacation and a couple of sleepovers is a long time to be with someone.  Double that if I include every good morning and good night, if you count covering and uncovering his house with his bunny blanket. Triple, quadruple that to conversations, to snuggles, to him dancing on the back of the sofa when he was a little guy, trying to woo me into being his lady-love (I’m not sure he ever understood the interspecies thing doesn’t usually turn out that great), or hanging upside down from my glasses,  or sitting on my knee in the bath because he really liked baths and he liked to sit on my head after, soaking wet and stinking like a wet bird does, all oil and musty weird. It’s strange, he smelled exactly the same after he was gone, warm and stuffy,  wrapped in a dishcloth I’d been sent from asia, so that was all good memories, too.

it’s strange, the way we are. I was reading, last night, about a restaurant I was in yesterday morning (we did a drive-by) was suddenly closing after only been open 11 months. Normally I don’t get nostalgic over such things, but in version 1.0 of this place, I had so many great conversations and experiences (like joining an imaginary rock band, and having our own section with the server (I hope school is going well, Steph!) we liked the most and the charming host/maitre’d who was always happy to see us), and although it’s a brick and mortar thing, it’s people too. People who try to do a thing that is of their heart, and for a while it’s there and strong and vibrant and then the wind changes, and blows it off, into the ether, and then it’s memory and a feeling that everything has a time. That we’re here for a bit, and then we’re gone. We waste so much time trying to be a thing that other people like or want or respect. And, yeah, I know it’s a bit bananas to compare people to a bakery that also served dinner, but at the same time, it’s all the same need: make a mark, set your stake or wave your flag.

Remember me.

You know?

I’m drinking earl grey tea out of my heart cup.  I was supposed to be  editing Gingerbread, because I finished it about 3 months ago and it’s time to go back, but I found myself here, instead. Full of sniffles and missing my little dude and thinking about the transitory nature of all of it.

anyway. I should go do a thing.  I hope you’re having a great day :)

 

this is why it is like trudging through pudding

this book edit is taking forever. Here’s why:

 

Screen Shot 2015-08-06 at 7.41.48 PM
The black is zero draft, the purple is new draft. LABORIOUS.

seriously. That’s about how much I have changed, all over the first half of the draft. Nevermind the actual plot stuff I’ve been adding.  That section about her jacket I spent approx. 5 hours on and it’s still kind of bad. I swear. BLAH.

 

just a note about at things, lists or something

this is what is happening in my head right now:

  • more research on the Rosicrucians, specifically from a symbolism point of view
  • sub rosa: under the rose, flower symbols, mythology and what that might look like/how also: thorns (see above: Rosicrucians, the Rosy Cross)
  • tarot: the Temperance card (Rider/Waite deck)
  • my favourite: the unicursal hexagram
  • Willow Trees: serpent/grief & death (also Salix, also calligraphy ink)
  • Altor
  • Crowley/Thelema, LaVey, still might be a book in there, somewhere, but I have two others to write first
  • Scene structure, character motivation/action: spear carriers VS full-fledged, what does that look like, should it, might? who knows.

anyway, this book I’m writing is really nifty. I have such affection for it.

a draft, like a breeze coming in through the cracks in the walls.

So I started Gingerbread in May 2014.  About six months later, maybe more, it became The Place Where We Belong, but now it’s the GingerbreadProject because I haven’t found a title for it yet and for me, no title is better than wrong title.  I seem to have started this project in May of 2014, the file that I have from that date is about 16K and most of it doesn’t exist in the current draft. Versions, sure,  looking a bit like twins separated at birth who go on to live separate lives, but there are huge chunks that just got caught away.

I finished the zero draft, which I’d written out of order in bits and pieces (I’m also working on short fiction as the mood strikes), on March 19, 2015, and yesterday the book that I’d cobbled together and had to almost entirely re-write,  is now a magical first draft, at 57,000 words.  3 months isn’t so bad, and it showed me a thing or two about who I am and how I work.  I’ve written my whole life, and although I don’t know if trying to have a novel published is a thing I want, I also don’t know if it’s a thing I don’t want, which puts me in a unique place in my own head. I think it is. But I also know it’s not a thing I’m hitching my wagon to.  I will be okay, either way.

I do think that I have a unique voice, and I’m proud of my little book and I want to be part of the voice of writers that write about diversity and inclusiveness, and I want to be part of that movement. I might be a super white cis-gendered yuppy, but I know how much it hurts when the people around you don’t feel you have value.  I know how hard people will work at trying to convince you (us. me.)  it’s true.  I want to tell a different story.

I found this image today, and it’s amazing:

alchemical rosicrucian

 

The flowers, the crown. Crown for the Blood King and flowers for the garden of Eden. Not canonical, of course, but I have borrowed so many small things from the Order of the Golden Dawn, and the Voynich MSS, that this combination, just makes me happy.  There’s a part of the book where the MC, Haven, is looking at tapestries on the second floor of the Blood House, and I suspect this one will be there, hanging outside the Rose Room, where Haven first meets the Blood King.  It’s interesting that it popped up after I’d spent half the morning looking at the tattoos of Kristen Holliday (which are amazing, btw), because the flowers and crown would look so, so beautiful in ink (I mean seriously, look at those tattoos!).  Jamie Lee Moyer tumbled the link to Kristen’s blog, and yay for tumbler (And Jamie!)

So,  now I’m thinking about all of this again, all of this magical mystical business. I’m not a scholar, and I never have been, so the chance of me writing some complex thing is very, very unlikely.  I always wonder why we can’t have books in which people just sit about and drink tea.

:)