The all too infrequent update

The all too infrequent update.

It is here.

What have I been up to?  Working.  Work usually slows this time of year but I haven’t seen any let up this year until this week really. 

Kids.  The usual.  Having a kid is hard work.  Having triplets is a little like trying to manage an Alaskan Gremlin farm in a rainstorm; during one of those periods where night lasts for weeks at a time.

Writing Wednesdays.  Or more appropriate, Editing Wednesdays, but no days start with “E.”  I think I have 5 sessions under my belt so I feel confident posting about it here.  Bonus: I feel good about the work I’m doing.  The editing goes well, if painstakingly slowly.  I’ve been editing/rewriting what I am only now realizing was a horribly unfinished product.  Like dynamited stone I started the project but needed to break out the chisel for the fine work.  Revisit.  Revise.  Remove.  Reorganize.  Shorten.  I’ve lightly redone the opening to One Bad Thing to remedy some “jumpiness” concerns from Renee.  Overall I’m happier with the semi-final product.  Whether it will ever constitute a finished product, I’m not sure.  Fiction isn’t my “work” writing style, or even the style I’m trained in, and I flounder just a bit for footholds.

That is better

After going 1-11 in my first 12 games on level 3, this is more like it.  I am generally trying to play at a single level until I reach the .500 mark.  A little short here, but no big deal.  Basically, I wanted a new challenge.  And honestly, most of those first 11 losses came from the clock expiring; I solved for this by simply extending the clock.

I've also kept busy rewriting some of my book.  I'm trying desperately to keep at this.  I mostly do this by finding little slices of time.  I find slices whereever I can.  Whereever sounds a lot like the word weather.  Speaking of weather, I've also been busy surviving a hurricane and cleaning up the results.  One last thing about hurricanes:  they are nothing compared to nurturing three sick kids. 

All in all pretty successful.

Pushups, Editing, And New Writing Opportunities

Just posting an update on some of my goals and progress notes.  I recently managed 255 pushups.  Well above my last update of 220.  I accomplished it in two jumps, the first a quick one to 240, and then a gradual build up to my new heights.  As part of my effort I did 75 pushups over 5 minutes, broken into 5 sets.

Other updates... I've done some light editing to my book.  After rewriting the opening I've now reworked what I think of as the secondary, "soft" opening.  As if I get to make such editorial choices as creating "soft" openings.

I answered a call for guest posts on the blog http://www.ordinaryparent.com/, and so soon you'll be seeing a post about what its like to be a Dad to triplets on that site.  I'm also thinking about writing a piece for the Good Men Project on fertility issues from a man's point of view.

Updates

I haven't posted in so long that my RSS feed at work doesn't have any posts from me in it, so it must be time for an update:

- My 100 pushup challenge failed miserably. More miserably than last time. This time it took a whole week to fail. Not like last time where I followed it for like a month. This time around the fail was dedicated. It was determined.

- On the positive, I started doing 200 pushups per day, and segued into doing a push-up based workout routine from the Bible that is essentially a push up and a burpee done back to back. Envy the muscle; envy the muscle.

- I owe a shout out to my sister on two accounts: first, for copy editing the book I wrote for my kids and wife. Thank you. Also, for giving me motivation to start reediting my book. I haven't actually started yet, but I'm envisioning starting. I'm thinking really long and hard about it, so that is something. I think I'm going about it a different way this time: editing online rather than in hard copy form. Printed words are for suckers and the old, right?

- I have nearly constant money worries, even though I'm/we're OK. I've always worried more about money than was probably healthy, but now its taken on a whole new variety of torture: Instead of just worrying about money, I now worry that I'll lose my job, never find another, and my kids won't respect me. Nice.

I think that is it for now. Another new post coming soon.

Better, Worse, Needs More Work?

Some people think they flirted with quiting; not to mention procastination and avoidance. However, the thin edge of quit they think they faced - a mere illusion. True quit remained a good ways off. I've tiptoed that line; stared down the vacuum-like abyss on the other side. I know.

Anyway, I've kinda decided that even if I get Falsley Accused edited, my Alpha editor may never lay hands on the Beta copy. Maybe it was the disappointment in not getting it read the first go around that led me to my decision. Maybe it was reading her copy that led me to it. I'm not sure. I reserve the right to change my mind and give her a second shot.

All of that notwithstanding, below are a couple pre-edited paragraphs from my book. Below that is a version as I edited it tonight. What thinks you?

Michael pulled out of his spot, turned around, and drove to the stop sign. He sat their a second, watching Officer Faris in his rearview mirror. Officer Faris seemed distracted in his car, so Michael inched into the intersction and made a right. He eased his car along, checking to see if Officer Farish noticed or intended to follow him, until he was behind the row of houses on the Apple Orchard Lane, the street running parrallell to Vine. Michael made it all the way to the middle of the block without seeing Officer Faris in his rearview mirror, so he turned down the small alley that ran between the row of houses. He pulled in just enough to avoid having Officer Faris see him when he pulled out and killed the engine. "Now what?" He thought.

Michael sat in his car pondering his next move when a movement at the end of the street caught his eye. Someone had come out of 92 Vine. Even as Michael looked up he could see the screen door banging shut behind the man. Michael watched for a moment more as the man walked down the steps and began to cross the alley. Even though he had been sitting in his car for almost six hours Michael had no idea what to do. The man continued his casual stroll across the alley. There were no cars. It was obvious he was on foot and appeared headed between houses to the next street over. Michael debated what to do. He couldn't drive his car to the end of the street. If the man ran into the woods or the next street over Michael would lose him. But he didn't feel comfortable backing up and going into the next street either. Too likely to tip off his position and he was in the same position. Him in car, man on foot. So Michael made the decision to be on foot as well. He opened his car door, left it open so as to not make noise shutting it, and started walking down the alley toward the man.
____________________________

Michael pulled out of his spot. Turned swung his car around and drove to the stop sign. He sat their a second. In his rearview mirror Michael could see the policeman's smug face. Officer Faris fiddled with something inside his car. Michael eased into the intersction. He looked back, checking to see if Officer Farish noticed or intended to follow.

When it appeared he didn't, Michael made a right and eased his car along. He coasted along until he found himself behind a row of houses. He was now on Apple Orchard Lane, which ran parrallell to Vine. Michael made it all the way to the middle of the block without seeing anyone follow. Michael turned down the alley running between the houses. It was more of a breezeway than alley; the houses packed so tight his car barely fit. He pulled in just enough to hide his car. He turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. "Now what?" He thought.

Michael's eyes unfocused; his attention stopped on a broken piece of blacktop at the end of the alley. A movement beyond the end of the street caught his eye. Someone had come out of 92 Vine. Even as Michael looked up he could see the screen door banging shut. Michael watched for a moment more as the man walked down the steps. Jittery strides carried the man across the alley entrance. The man continued his herk-jerk stroll across the alley opening. There were no cars on the street. The man must be on foot, Michael though. Michael debated what to do. He feared driving to the end of the street. If the man from 92 Vine spooked he could quickly run into the woods or slip down another alley. Backing up would likely tip off his position. Either to the man or Officer Faris. So Michael opened his door and slid out. Careful to leave it open so as to not make noise. He began walking down the alley toward the man from 92 Vine.

I wish I could write like this

This article by E.D. Kain pretty much nails how I feel about Libertariansim, including both its pros and cons. I highly recommend the article, which is very accessible, I think; even to those who aren't politically inclined. I wish I could write this well about my beliefs.

The whole thing is worth reading, but I liked the following:

Libertarianism, if we are to practice it honestly, requires as much self-denial as possible, as much abandonment of special interest as possible.

Stories like this

Ignore that this guy is getting his novel published. For these purposes, its nice, but not required.

First off, the story itself is nicely crafted. It's the type of writing and story that carries my interest even outside of the marriage and book publishing topics. I sometimes wish this is what I was writing. Or at the very least that I was writing like this.

But the point I really want to ram home is that this guy took four years to write his novel. Four years. I've long since forgotten how long I've been at mine. My guess would be 3 years. Four years is possible.

And his original drafts were, if he is to be believed, dreck as well. Of course, admitting your work was originally dreck is easier once you have published a book and have an agreement for a second. First off, its easier to take criticism when once you've succeeded. Secondly, its much more complimentary to you if you cleaned up this original mess you made into a sellable novel. "I worked slavishly to clean up this mess" is better than "the words pretty much fell onto the page as they are here."

This is all on my mind because The Oven and I were discussing my progress on my novel last night. Or lack thereof, anyway. And so I rededicated myself to editing.

I have a new novel fleshing itself out in my head that I'd like to eventually write. But I'm determined not to start it until the work in progress is finished. Finished finished.

The honest truth is I'd like to finish this damn thing and it be good. Almost to the exclusion of its publication.

Which is easier: Hitting .250, or writing a half-way decent novel?

Bill James at Slate.com wonders "why are we so good at developing athletes and so lousy at developing writers?"

James makes some good points, but mixes in one truly aweful one and ignores another somewhat easy explanation.

The easy explanation is that writing, at all but its top-most performance, is very subjective, while baseball isn't.

Sure, Shakespeare is universally regarded (and maybe because of that gets undue regard). Outside of him and a handful of others, "good" writing is subjective. Romance, legal thrillers, etc etc etc. Is Grisham good, or a mere hack? He's certainly good at what he does, but does "what he does" constitute hackery? Stephen King sells millions, but is he merely rewriting the same 5 or so stories? Is he formuliac? Is he verbose? Does it matter? The Invisible Man by Ellison (the one about race, not Sci Fi) is considered a classic. It is one of probably one or two books I've ever started that I couldn't finish. It was like reading by rubbing my eye against broken glass.

On the other hand, a guy who hits .300 is pretty good hitter regadless. You can nick-pick whether he gets on base enough, or whether he has sufficient power for this position or that, but honestly, .300 is good. James wonders if some of it is because we already have Shakespeare and Dickens, but we "need" new baseball games every day. It sounds good on first inspection. But we also "need" new books every day. And despite James' contention that we would could and would fill any expansion of baseball teams with new talent of equal character (James suggests even 5,000 [5,000!] teams could be filled with quality talent!), I just don't think its true. In its formative days writing had Dickens and Shakespeare; baseball had Aaron and Ruth. Today, a watered-down and mass produced writing has King and Grisham, while a watered-down and mass produced baseball has all those .240 hitters and come-this-year, gone-the-next relief pitchers with whose names I won't bore you.

James cites baseball's payment-on-potential nature. In other words, baseball pays a young high schooler based on potential, but a writer must toil for years before finding any type of success. True. But a young hurler can have a big impact quickly, and that impact can be predicted with some measure of consistency. Absent injury, a guy consistently pitching 8 innings of 1.25 WHIP ball is likely to be a productive player. A person consistently writing a novel a year, even completely readable, well-written novels, isn't necassarily ever going to turn out a great novel, let alone a profitable one.

So I put it to you: Which is easier... hitting .250 (a mediocre average that would make you an iffy prospect) or writing a half-way decent novel?

Hacked to death

As a newspaper editor, I've had occasion to peruse a decent amount of self-published works. I can tell you this: Most of them are self published for a reason.

Now, no less an author than Edgar Allen Poe has taken the self-publishing route. But, with the obvious benefits of hindsight, he was pretty damn good. Admittedly, the publishing biz isn't doing good biz right now. I harbor no ill will to those who self publish, nor do look down upon them. In today's world, they are a bit of a revolutionary, I think.

But getting back to the original point: Most are self-published for a reason. Say what you want about publishing biz problems, and stock subject books with unoriginal, copy cat plotting, but if you read a bit of self-published work, you'll start to see that there plenty of good reasons lots of those books aren't getting through. Writing isn't hard, necessarily; writing well is.

What always struck me about these self-published books is how obviously bad they were. The authors either had an obvious axe to grind and either were just piss-poor at hiding it or didn't care to hide it, or just weren't great writers. And I'm not suggesting they had to be the next Hemingway. The next Hemingsomeguy would have been fine. I've read my fair share of what I would call "mediocre" novels published by publishing houses. Its one of the ironies of the biz that its nearly impossible to get published, and that good authors regularly struggle, while the industry goes on its merry way publishing some very tepid stuff. Works that are instantly forgettable and not especially well written, well plotted or well charactered.

It's the lack of self awareness that worries me. These guys obviously either were so egotistical that they thought publishing would win them accolades, or they just didn't realize that their works didn't even compare to the mediocre stuff out there.

That is my fear: I don't want to spending all this time doing all this work (both of which I have a love-hate relationship with anyway), all while the end product is just so obviously bad. If I can't get published, I can't get published, I just don't want to be so bad its obvious to everyone but me.

PS - I'm not doing Nano, but I'm going to use the month to sketch out and structure "Slide", my next novel, and edit Falsely Accused.

PS - stay tuned for updates all this week!

I can't post much for the moment

I had a post about the story I wrote in my last post, but its going to have to wait. I could tell you what it was about, but that would ruin the fun.

Even if time permitted a real, thought-out post, the emotional toll of everything prevents such. I'm going to need time to sort stuff out and figure out how all the post-worthy events and news come out.

Till, perhaps, tonight, then.

Dinner at 7:30

Julie sat alone in the semi-circle booth at the small round table by herself. She sat away from the table, as if she was melting into the floor. Her body pressed into the cushioned booth seat.

She stared at the lone candle burning slowly in the center of the circular table. The flame fought its battle against the darkness of the restaurant. Julie fought against the urge to touch the still burning and painful flesh around her eye.

She waited. She checked her watch: 7:30. Her parents would arrive soon.

She touched her right eye, wincing. Her fingers gently probed the taut, puffy smooth skin.

She wondered what her parents would think. It suddenly occurred to her that arriving first was not the best decision; it was a terrible decision. She thought she could avoid a scene by not making her own entrance. But how was this alternative – giving her parents the long walk between here and the door - better. She reached to her right and rifled through her purse, forgot what she wanted, and gave up.

Maybe the darkness would shade most of the bruising. Julie began pecking through her purse but gave up, decided it was too dark to locate whatever she might have wanted to find.

Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t hungry. She realized she was inhaling quick, short, ragged bursts and tried consciously taking longer breaths. She removed her hand from the warm flesh of her eye and placed it on the cool smoothness of her water glass. She ran her finger up and down the slick, condensating surface. She gave up on breathing altogether.

Movement caught her eye and she looked up from the table. Even in the dim light she could recognize the figure coming toward her, her mother’s shoes clip-clopping along the floor as she closed the distance in a controlled power walk.

Julie tried not to raise her head, tried to avert her eyes, but it was too late. Once her mother caught her eyes the facade of control disappeared and she covered the last bit of distance in an explosion of clips and clops. Couldn’t she have worn quieter shoes, Julie thought to herself.

Her mom grabbed Julie’s head in her hands. Julie could see her mother’s eyes wet with emotion as her mother leaned in too kiss her eye. Not even the darkness of this place could hide her eye at that distance.

“Oh my god.” Julie’s mother pulled away, taking a deep breath. “What did he do to my baby?” she wailed, stroking Julie’s eye.

Her father arrived at the table. “Oh, would you quite it. I told you. That kind of treatment is exactly why she’s in the place she’s in.” In his navy-blue suit he was nothing but a large shadow in the darkness minus a dissected V of white where his tie cut through his collared shirt.

Julie's mother shot a look in Julie’s father’s direction, but otherwise didn’t seem to hear him.

Editing

For the NaNo project/plan I mentioned yesterday to happen, I have to get the first edit of Falsely Accused/The Needles On Pine Tree Street finished. My goals is one read through/edit by NaNo, take a month off to write for NaNo, then do a second, closer edit of the first book in time for a Spring unveiling.

The editing is a laboriously slow and frustrating process. But a heartening one at the same time. I like the basic bones of what I've written, if not always the fleshing out of them. And I feel like my editing is improving the work. Making it more readable and interesting and active. Its filling in some gaps and making the story more complete, I hope.

And I'm hoping its making me better prepared and given me insights into organizing my NaNo project: Slide.

Anyway, at this point, I'm a quarter of the way through Accused. I read recently that just completing a book, just completing it, is a pretty hefty accomplishment of which to be proud and which puts you in rarified territory. That's my immediate goal. Complete a book for submission.

The plan for the future

Despite the fact that November will be smack in the middle of football season, the holidays, my new volunteer activity and probably the completion of the bedroom remodel, I was recently inspired to at least start planning to participate in Nano.

Of course, I planned to participate two years ago, as well.

But this time I have an actual, honest to goodness story brewing. One of the two or three ideas worming its way through my head. At any given time one or the other is in the lead in taking form from mere ether into a somewhat solid shape.

Of late, one particular idea has taken the lead and not let go. It stems from recent admiration of science fiction writing. I've also been enamored lately with "what ifs;" as in, what if X wasn't necassary, or didn't happen. Nothing so grand as in "what if Hitler was killed as a child," but... what if our preconcieved ideas of roads and buildings and society weren't so preconcieved.

In my story, a former mining town laboring under the weight of past misteps and its own policies and history allows a sparsely populated, left-for-dead district to start fresh, free from any existing structure or policy. The experiment lasts 50 years, at which time the two areas vote on whether to rejoin each other.

The book picks up at the run up to the vote, at a time when both sides are suspect of the other, extremely xenophobic and antagonistic to each other, and anxious about what the election will mean for them and their way of life. The entire thing is thrown into disarray when a mud slide buries large parts of the town.

That's two moving story lines. Throw in a love triangle, a possible murder and some individuals dealing with personal growth and I think I've got a novel.

Great story!

The first couple lines of this story ring very, very true. I haven't read the entire article yet but its about an author whose first book took 10 years (there are others!) from conception to publication (it can happen, even today!). Nicely written and reassuring.

There is surely a word—in German, most likely—that means the state of active non-accomplishment. Not just the failure to reach a specific goal, but ongoing, daily failure with no end in sight. Stunted ambition. Disappointed potential. Frustrated and sad and lonely and hopeless and sick to death of one's self.

Whatever it's called, this is what leads people to abandon their goals—people do it every day. And I understand that decision, because I lived in this state of active non-accomplishment for many years.

I wrote the earliest bit of what would become my first novel, Stiltsville, in January of 2000, when I was in my first year of a graduate writing program. In May of 2009, I old Stiltsville to HarperCollins—the hardcover is due out next month.

This means that the time from my novel's conception to its appearance on store shelves adds up to a staggering 10 years. An entire decade. Between, I graduated and spent a year on fellowship (during which I wrote a lot but only half of it was any good); then there were the teaching years (during which I wrote very little, hardly any of it good); then there were the Internet company years (during which I barely wrote at all).

Stiltsville is in good company, which is reassuring. There are oodles of novels that took a decade or longer to write—including some famous examples, like Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.

Diaz spoke in interviews about his own decade of active non-accomplishment. He said that five years into the process, he decided to give up on the novel and start a graduate degree (in what, he didn't say). He said his life improved: no more torture, no more fights with his fiance. Oh, Junot, I thought when I read this, I understand! Still, something pulled him back, and another five years passed, and then he was finally done.

[UPDATE]: I liked this column so much, that I plan to write a response column either this weekend or early next week. It probably won't be a straight response. More likely it will be a breakdown of my own struggles and a response to certain parts of the column that struck a cord with me.

Finally finished. Finally.

Tonight, sometime after 11 p.m., I finally finished Falsely Accused. Only like a year late and after having blown past something on the order of 4 self-imposed deadlines.

But hey, its finished.

It was oddly anticlimatic. For months now I haven't known exactly what to do with the ending. Even when I knew the "what" of the ending, I still struggled with the how.

Even the first ending I wrote tonight underwent a slight edit that changes the "how" - though not the "what." But when it was all finished, I just kinda sat back, looked at the screen, and thought, "huh, I have nothing left to write. There is nothing left to say." Nothing remained in front of me but a dark... void isn't right... more like this wall of solid darkness. Just nothing left in front of me.

So its finished. And printing. Which is actually more terrifying than I expected. Though maybe I shouldn't have been surprised by that. Still, I hadn't expected it to be so scary having the actual words on actual paper rather than having them in pixels on the screen.

The long, cold winter of rewrite/editing begins.

Doggone funny

Wow. That was a bad headline. Perhaps historically bad. As a former newspaper headline writer and current journal headline writer, I hang my head in shame. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barks. Ok, its my kitchen.

What does all this have to do with 1000 & 1 Things?

This slate.com article posits that you can pick up just about any book and find one of two lines: A) "A dog barks in the distance" or B) "Somewhere a dog barks."

Story author Rosecrans Baldwin traces the line through a veritable A-Team of writers and novels...

The Death of Ivan Ilyich.
Shadow Country.
Ulysses.
All The King's Men
Alentejo Blue
It
Christine
House Rules.
Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five

Baldwin explains it as a type of breathing point for authors trying to find their way, a rest stop, a breather. He suggests that editors should probably clip out most of the references as unnecassary. But then he posits that, as amatuer as it may be, it might just be that the dog barkerers are using the trope because, well, so many before them have used it. Its like ND players slapping the sign in Rudy. They do it because those before them did it. Perhaps its silly if you think about it, maybe, but its tradition and harmless.

I think I would generally fall on the side of being against such sentences. They seem superflurous. Unless the dog and his bark is in some way relevant to the story, it shouldn't be there under the guidelines of strong, tight story writing. At least that's what I've been taught. I, however, hesitate to question the writing of giants and those much more published than myself.

The funniest part of the story: Baldwin's first novel is being published soon, and after investigation, he realized that he had included the dog barking line himself. And after a friend whose first novel is also being published soon mocked him for noticing the prevelance of the dog barking line, the friend realized that the line appears in his novel as well.

Kinda I'm Doing Something (Take Two)

I'm sitting here, having a cup of Sencha tea, having exceeded what is expected of me from work today and having not yet gotten started on what is expected of me for tomorrow. And so I'm trolling the Internet to unwind a bit. And yes, its hot; and yes, blogging is probably not what is expected of me, regardless of my level of production.

But as I said, it's what I'm doing.

And I stumble upon a... its not really a review... more of promotional item by a journalist but we'll call it a review... about a self-published book called the "The Shack." The article itself is really well done.

A sample from the article: "The novel's subject is faith in God, but it is written as if to a reader who has little interest in religion. And although it is a Christian book, its author does not seem to follow any church." But wait, it gets better: "The Shack is to narrative form roughly what the Leatherman Multi-Tool is to pliers."

It makes me want to read the book. And I thought that the topic was cool and probably of interest to at least some of you.

So, I'm trying to kill the rest of my work day, and this got me to Part Two of the post: There is so much to do right now. My book is nearly finished. I've said that probably 100 times. But each time I say it I'm a bit closer. I'm on the final scene now, so I can't be far off. Plus, the next story is already writing scenes in my head. This writing stuff would be easier if I could take the scenes in my head and just transform them into written word, rather than, you know, actually writing them. And don't fear, because this actually does tie into The Shack, because the author of that book took two years writing his novel. So I'm in good company. The novel is self-published, yes, but its been on the best-seller list for 105 weeks.

There is just so much to do. House work, work work, yard work, dog work, car work, life work, health work, blog work, avoiding-the-annoying-census-girl work, book-writing work, book-editing work, reading work, hiding-messages work, XBox work. It can be, well, a little much.

Update: Oh, and in amongst all that other work, I'm surprising R. tonight with a steak dinner. I had kinda intended it to be a candle light dinner, but since it doesn't get dark enough for candle light, it will just have to be a surprise steak and potato and tomato dinner. That might not seem like much, but we don't eat beef or potatoes around here much anymore since we went on the the weight-loss/healthy eating path.

Speaking of which... I'm doing this Spartacus workout. Ten stations of 60 second workouts, with 15 seconds to change. Three full sets for a total of 41ish minutes. Its from the Bible. And its a killer workout that involves weights, but thanks to the stations also improves cardio performance and burns mucho calorieo. So me can eat Oreo. But instead I usually just eat Jello.

I'm not F'n around

Seriously.

I've about had it with asshats trying to run other peoples' lives. Its gotten to the point where I'm kinda bitter.

And, shhhhh, I'm not gonna file my Census form in protest. Oh, I may eventually. But I'm going to prolong it as long as possible.

Like I said, I'm getting bitter.

A nice vacation may be just what I need. Oh, and I think I need to stay off the Libertarian posting boards. Little too much echo, if you catch my drift.

The good news is that I've finally scaled a year-long writer's block. Chalk the delay up to my fear of heights. Chalk it up to being a crappy writer. Chalk it up to laziness. Chalk it up to my habit of never really finishing anything. Heck, chalk it up to the Man in the Sky for all I care.

Tonight I wrote - for the first time really - towards the ending of Falsley Accused. About half way, maybe 30% of the way towards the end of the road that remains. I actually know - for the first time - the "how" of how it will end. Sorta. More like I know the road I'll take, that the road heads East, and that it passes through 3 towns. Where exactly I'll end up, well, that's the exciting part.

Hoping to take the rough draft on vacation with me for review and light editing, notation and rewriting of the crappy parts.

So... the entire thing.

Lift the rock, watch the bugs scurry

Someone lifted the rock I was under. So now here I am. A small, hard-shelled bug, scurrying along on my twelve furiously moving legs to escape the sun and once again find shelter in the dark, dank, wetness of the shaded mud under some rock.

I know I haven't written in ages. I spent a significant amount of time on a project for this blog, and then the whole thing just went dark.

My schedule is really being rewritten right now. Duke is up to two 15 minutes walks per day plus 15 figure 8s three times per day. I've kinda combined the two for the sake of my own sanity. And by kinda I mean I sure as hell combined the two and dropped one of the figure 8s. That is not only a time suck. Its a reordering of my entire day that can cause the other items to spiral madly out of control and collide into each other, if not careful. (Ok, ok, my life is neither so filled nor so important or busy that its items spiral out of control or have any chance of colliding - or at least of the collisions having any real effect - but I wanted to write that line).

Duke loves it. He's outside exploring and walking around for significant amounts of time for the first time in a month. And he's finally excited to walk and not constantly looking to go back inside. Who can blame him? He's probably feeling better walking around than he has in a year. Still a little limp - maybe arthritis, maybe lingering surgery pain, might just be phantom pain; who knows?

Only ... 3 more months until he can walk "off leash."

Duke rehab. Christmas prep. Life. That's pretty much the extent of what I'm doing. Oh, and I've been sick since the Saturday after Thanksgiving. That too. I slept for like 12 hours the Monday after Thanksgiving. Seriously. I took two naps in one day.

I'm back to reading. I really like Compulsion. I've had the book on hold for months, but every time I read it I really, really like. Its a style I aspire too and a good story. I just find that I don't read it. I usually have good intentions and anticipate joyfully reading it at night before bed, and then I find that I just don't read it.

Whatever. I'll be finished it, and Falsley Accused, by Christmas. I'm not promising Christmas 2009, mind you, but Christmas in general.

Caffeine-Free Days: 10

So, yesterday was 10 days without a drop of an "as advertised" caffeinated beverage. 10!

I had 4 cups of decaf tea, 1 decaf iced coffee from DD. I wasn't really counting solid foods in the abstinence program, but I also had a box of junior mints and, last night, a 2 Buck Choc./Peanut butter bar, if you must know. And after that, I guess you must.

I type this as I'm preparing to make a cup of tea for the first time in 11 days. Probably my longest non-vacation time away from hot tea since I started drinking loose leaf.

If its a life-altering experience, I'll post something.

As for the results of the caffeinelessathon: I was sleepy last Friday, as I noted, but thought I was getting better. Saturday was fine. Sunday included a 12-mile bike ride, so it was hard to tell. But I wasn't sleepy at all at work so far this week. So its probably out of my system. I'm sleeping well. Working well.

And I would say the "new normal" is a lot like the "old normal." I'm the same. With one exception that I'll get too. I chalk the "sameness" to my body having adjusted to the caffeine. And now it's "reset."

Now, about that exception. I feel a little less frayed at the edges, I suppose. That could just be psycosymatic. But I feel a little more focused at work. A little more hard working. A little less distracted.

Other updates - NaNo - A big no. I've done nothing. I have a story percolating, but I've written nothing.

Which is kind of fine. Duke is back from ACL surgery and needs quite a bit of care. Three days of 3x daily ice packs (you ever tried to ice pack a dog where it is hurting from a knee reconstruction/5 inch scar?). Followed by 3x daily heat wraps for three days. No walking for a week except for potty breaks. Then there is a rehab program of gradually increasing walks, starting at less than 10 minutes, 2x day. No off-lease walking for 4 (four) months. And because he pulled out 3 sutures, he's wearing a cone nearly the size of a kitchen sink. For 10 days. Fun.

He's getting over the grogginess of the anethsia, but he's in pain and saddened/confused by the cone, which he rams into most everything, leaving alone only those items in which he plans to entrap himself on. And since we are largely ignoring him so won't do anything but lay down, he is somewhat confused by the lack of attention.

Oh, and he's not allowed to jump onto his second favorite sleeping area: the couch. Nor is he going to be making the 3-foot jump into his favorite sleeping area: the bed.