Teh Bunneh Warren

Man's Best Overlord

2006-03-20T15:37:00.000-05:00

Someday I will post about something other than my dog. Today isn't that day.

One of the things I learned when I was researching breeds was that Australian Shepherds are smart dogs. More than one article warned that they could out-think their owner. Now, while I understand that it's a good thing to include in an article that one is ostensibly going to read prior to plunking down anywhere from $500-$1200 for a purebred dog, it's also the sort of information that will lead someone who considers herself to be forearmed (like me) to wonder if her puppy is engaged in a scheme to undermine her.

Is my dog smarter than I am? Ye gods, I hope not. He's fifteen weeks old and completely entranced by squeaky toys. I hold a Master's Degree from The George Washington University.

And yet, I have to wonder: how does this game of mental chess begin? Is my dog using me to get what he wants, and I'm too dim to realize it? Maybe it starts with the realization that Sitting Patiently By the Door means that, yes, he'll be brought outside (as, in our house, that is Dog for "OMG I Gotta Pee!!"), which then leads to the dog sitting by the door every time it wants to be let outside, thereby throwing the owner into a quandry -- does he really mean it? Does he really have to go, or is this going to turn into the owner standing in the yard while the dog in question trots around, sniffing every blade of grass, but producing nothing.

Is the owner stupid if s/he falls for this ruse? I don't think so -- it just means s/he isn't of a mind to clean up a mess.

What I'm worried about is whether this trick (which, yes, Darwin does pull) will lead to larger, more grandiose canine manipulations. Will I start discovering unusual charges on my credit card and slobber on my mousepad? Is he asking to be taken for a walk just so the cats can indulge in whatever nefarious deeds are lurking about in their frighteningly complex and occasionally evil feline brains? Underneath the chasing (Darwin) and hissing (Bronte and Kisa), is there an unholy alliance brewing that will result in humanity bowing and scraping before three furry overlords?

Actually, it would be two furry overlords, as Kisa is sweet, but her scratching post doesn't go all the way to the top. Bronte, however, knows how to open doors, and is perilously close to figuring out how to turn on the kitchen faucet.

Eureka!

2006-03-16T10:38:00.000-05:00

Well, I finally figured out my problem with the writer's block. Essentially, chapters 9 and 10 built up to an opening scene in chapter 11 that... wasn't cooperating. It was all causing me to foam at the mouth, because it's just frustrating when you're trying to write and everything you produce just sucks.

So I went back to, oh, about chapter 5 or 6 and read everything through, and finally decided that what I needed to do was scrap 9, 10, and 11 and change my approach entirely. My characters were doing unexplainable things that complicated their situation unnecessarily -- it's something I call the "Stupidity Quotient." You know how you'll watch a movie, say your generic, run of the mill "disaster" movie -- and there's an active volcano, and it's gonna blow, and there's no escaping the fact that it's going to annihilate everything in its path, and yet you'll have the one character who stubbornly refuses to evacuate, or the kids who decide to go exploring, or the young hot couple who'll go make out in the shadow of said volcano? High stupidity quotient, there. Horror movies have a ridiculously high SQ, too. It's a shame, because I love a good scare, but idiocy just makes me gnash my teeth.

Anyway. My characters were being stupid. And I can't abide by that, so I scrapped the chapters and I'm starting over again, trying to keep things a bit more reasonable and realistic, and stick to actions and reactions that make sense. (Before, I was going for a bit of humor -- a whole "comedy of errors" thing, and it just wasn't funny.)

In non-writing related things, I took my dog to a local dog-park today, because running full-tilt in a wide, open space is something he doesn't get to do as often as we'd both like, and (hey, since we're speaking about stupidity) I'd like to wonder WTF some of these dog-owners are thinking by (a) taking aggressive dogs to a place where other dogs congregate and (b) what the owners of small breeds are thinking by taking their dogs into the "large breed" area. Darwin's a puppy still, yes, but he plays rough (Australian Shepherds, more often than not, are known for being rambunctious playmates), so I can't really take him into the "small dog" area. There's actually a weight limit in the small breed area, and recently passed that cutoff point.

Anyway, today I brought him to the park, and everything was going fine until this one dog owner brought her Golden Retriever in, and he started bullying the other dogs. And then someone brought a wolf hybrid mix in, and... yeah. I've brought Darwin there before, and the other visits have been very positive. Today, though, we left soon after the wolf-hybrid got there, because a few of the larger dogs were starting to gang up on Darwin.

Now, I realize that it's my responsibility as a puppy owner to be aware of the safety of a situation, and I'm not suggesting that the other dog owners should let my puppy do whatever he wants. I also realize that dogs have their own rules for hierarchy. I know that dogs will play rough. But when a dog has chased mine behind/under a bench, and has him cornered, and is barking its fool head off keeping my dog cornered, I'm going to get a little annoyed. When I take my dog to the other end of the park, far away from aforementioned other dog, and that dog chases Darwin down just so he can get my dog in a submissive position and then keep him there, I'm going to get a little more annoyed. And when the owner is nowhere to be seen, then I'm going to get downright cranky.

Why is it that I can maintain better control over my puppy than someone else can over their adult dog?

An effort to post more often...

2006-03-12T07:44:00.000-05:00

Mark said I'd be forgiven for my lapse if I took care of myself, walked the dog, and posted at least twice a week. I'm flu-free, and I've taken the puppy out, so here's an effort to post more often.

I've been giving serious consideration to posting the novel-in-progress, tentatively titled "Universal Truths," here. I'm hesitant, for a variety of reasons, but lately I just feel lost with it, like my characterizations are inconsistent, my dialogue is awful and I can't make things progress forward. I'm sure everyone has days when they feel like they can't write for beans, but I'm having a hard time shaking this. It's been difficult for me to get constructive criticism from my beta readers, because they all have their own lives, and I'm not needy and demanding enough to whine that they pay attention to me, me, ME!

That said, I'm not sure if posting it here would be a good thing either, since I'm pretty sure mine is a not-widely-read blog. And... I don't know. I feel strange about posting original fiction online. It's a whole different ball of wax. I suppose part of it is insecurity, and maybe a little bit of shyness. Part of it, however, is that online posting (or, if you prefer, "publishing," though that would be using the term loosely) seems... it just feels like a bad idea. I can't articulate why. Does it "cheapen" the work? This is something I'd like to finish and shop around, so is it best to keep it to myself and limit the number of people reading it? (And I'm not even assuming it'd get read if I posted it here.)

I think I'll keep thinking about it.

Oh, for crying out loud...

2006-03-08T08:04:00.000-05:00

I just read my last entry, and am in the process of whanging my head against the nearest wall. I'd managed to write some more in January, but February... ate me.

On February 2nd, I became the proud mama of an 8 week old Australian Shepherd. On February 5th, I was hit hard by the flu (which lingered for about three weeks). Add to this a grad-level accounting class, and you get a month with the life sucked out of it.

But now Darwin (the Aussie) is reaching something resembling housebroken, and I can turn my back for five minutes at a time without looking up to find him chewing away, quite happily, on one of the cats' toys, a sock, or a bit of god-only-knows-what from the carpet.

I just wish I hadn't had to lose an entire month of writing. (I tried. I definitely tried. I had the laptop in bed, and when I wasn't lost in a fever-coma, I was... glaring ineffectually at the screen and staving off sleep for as long as I could.) And when you have a puppy that needs to be let out every two or three hours (even overnight), that makes life Very Interesting indeed. (I will never, ever miss standing outside at two in the morning, in 30 degree weather, with a fever and a cough, waiting for Darwin to Do What He Needs To Do.)

Of course, now that I have the time and mental stamina (okay, that part was questionable to begin with) it's almost as if I've worked myself into a sort of psychological block. The writer's block I had in January is still in place, mostly because I'm stuck on a scene -- I'm not sure whether to write everything out as it happens (which seems like it'd be laborious and dull), or to gloss over the event itself (a luncheon) and get to what happens afterward. I mean, it's a scene that has to happen, because two important characters meet, and things really start to happen AFTERWARD. So... I'm starting to think I've built it up too much in my mind, and I should just write the damned bit, and if it's awful, then it's awful -- but at least I'd have something to EDIT.

The holiday that ate my brain...

2006-01-16T11:57:00.000-05:00

I sincerely hope I'm not the only one who experienced a severe lapse in creativity during the past month. This year's holidays, for some reason, seemed more hectic than any other. Or maybe it's just that I'm getting older, and have more responsibilities. I hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year, and at Christmas made my first-ever Christmas dinner. (Ham, if anyone was wondering. And, yes, I made it myself. No honey-baked spiral hams here, nosiree!) Add to this the general stress of gift-buying, and the too-late revelation that my fiance's company would not be doing Christmas bonuses this year (no one found out about this until, oh, about the 22nd or so), and... well, I certainly tried writing.

Well, I tried writing after I finished my round of hard-copy editing. I think it went well overall; I made a lot of significant changes, and even more changes when I went to the soft-copy and edited it. The only thing that bothers me a little is that, while doing that helped a lot with cutting a great deal of unnecessary prose, but I can't help but think I ... sterilized my "voice" somewhat. I may go through again and make another round of edits, trying to put my voice back in.

But, back to writing.

It seems whenever I found myself with a spare block of time, I'd open up the document and stare at it with an expression I lovingly refer to as the "glazed-over roadkill stare." Nothing came to me. It was kind of scary, actually. These characters that had been in my head only weeks before, living, breathing, thinking, doing... were suddenly silent. They were still there, certainly, but they were milling around, looking shiftless and vaguely guilty, scuffing at the ground with their feet, looking at me like, "Yeah, so now what, fearless leader?"

However, now that we're into another year, and all of that insanity has diminished, I'm starting to feel them moving about again -- it's a clunky, slow, almost arthritic movement, but it's movement, and I'm not going to complain. Much.

Ironically, I found that keeping this blog helped me rather than hindered me with my writing. Funny thing, that. Particularly when it sometimes seems the general opinion about struggling writers and blogs is that the blog is essentially a timewaster, and that we'd all be better off doing something else. Like, oh, writing.

But I need something to write when I feel the roadkill-stare creeping over me. I need something to write that will keep the front part of my brain occupied while certain frustrating little details work themselves out while simmering on the back burner of my mind. I need to figure out why my favorite character's voice has suddenly, inexplicably changed, and what I have to do about that -- do I wrestle him back to the way he was when I started writing him? Or would I be better off seeing where this subtle shift takes me? (I'm tempted to do the latter, frankly.)

But keeping this blog keeps me thinking about writing, and for me, a lot of things fall under the "out of sight, out of mind" category. When I wasn't updating this blog, it was easier to not think about writing. Now that I'm updating it (*cough* now that I discovered that it wasn't my password I'd forgotten, but the correct spelling of my username), I'm hoping to get myself back into the swing of things, as it were.

Of course, directly after Christmas, when I wasn't writing, I was reading. I got a lovely lit-crit book on Gothic literature, and Neil Gaiman's Sandman, volumes 1-10 (and his Sandman standalone, The Dream Hunters, which is positively gorgeous), a collection of HP Lovecraft (love it), and an anthology of "The Best New Horror," which... so far is actually kind of lame and disappointing. Lovecraft makes my skin crawl, but this anthology is... mostly kind of uninspiring. It seems quite a few of the stories don't really have a firm grasp on what's really scary -- those base, primal fears that lurk in the shadows of our minds. (And Neil Gaiman has a short story in there as well, and so far it's only made me laugh, because it seems to poke fun at the conventional Gothic novel in a way that reminds me vaguely of Northanger Abbey. It could get spooky later on, but I don't know yet.)

That said, you have to know something in order to poke fun at it, and after finishing ten volumes of Sandman, Gaiman's Morpheus supplants Heathcliff and Melmoth as Best Gothic Hero, Ever.

A lesson learned...

2005-12-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

As I've mentioned before, I'm a compulsive editor. I read and re-read and edit my chapters, usually when I'm stuck on the current one.

Right before Thanksgiving, I started to get the feeling that my chapter breaks were off. I didn't -- couldn't -- write during the week (too much to be done), and this week my goal was to print out the whole shebang and read the hard copy in an effort to figure out the more... organic spots for chapter breaks.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do that, because upon reading the hard copy, I'm realizing how many things there are that don't work, how much needless exposition I have, and how much I dislike my phrasing in many places.

I didn't see any of this in the soft copy. None of it. I read it, edited it, had other people read and make suggestions on it, and... it's just amazing how many things I didn't catch when editing the electronic copy.

So, looks like another slew of revisions for me, AND renegotiating chapter breaks. That's okay, because I was having a lot of trouble writing the current chapter, I'm still pretty shocked at how much I disliked what I read in the hard copy.

New rule: Whenever I think I'm "done" with a chapter, I'm printing it out and doing a hard copy edit before moving on. Yeesh, I feel dumb.

Writing Progress and Quirks

2005-11-17T08:16:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted here in a while, but that's actually because I've been writing lately, rather than complaining about not being able to write. Last week was wildly productive -- I managed somewhere in the neighborhood of 3,000 words last week (this is only an estimate, since I didn't count exactly) and I started to wonder if I should've signed up for NaNoWriMo. But then, I'm writing a lot, and it's possible that imposing a deadline on myself might've sucked up any and all creative energy from me, so maybe it's better that I didn't.

Mostly I work on the incentive plan -- if I manage at least 500 words a day, I treat myself with something. Usually it's something mindless -- like watching a favorite DVD or relaxing with a favorite book. Of course, the inspiration's been flowing, and while I'm way over my "treat myself" quota, I haven't been treating myself, because I've been writing. Too busy to treat myself, I guess?

Either way, I'm up to chapter 9, and the scenes I've been looking forward to writing are finally coming up, and I'm finding out that I've been looking forward to writing these certain scenes for so long that I've managed to psych myself out. I fretted for most of the day yesterday, because I couldn't make the dialogue come on one of these scenes. Then I decided that I would just write, and even if what I wrote was blindingly craptacular, I'd still write, because then I'd have something to revise. As it turned out, I think the scene's dialogue was not "blindingly craptacular," and was marginally better than what I expected to produce, so it's all good (until I take my "every three chapters" break and do heavy editing/revising).

I've also been thinking about the "quirks" meme that Jason did over at Clarity of Night. He invited me to give it a whirl (without the pressure of "tagging" me to do it, thank goodness), and I've been trying to think of what things I do that may be considered "quirky." So here goes:

1. I must match. Must. Shoes, purse, and belt should all either be black leather or brown leather, or something that matches black or brown leather. I avoid buying "novelty" accessories for this very reason. I always, always, always match. Even when no one's looking, or when it's something no one will see -- like pajamas.

2. I hate confrontation, and as a means of gearing myself up for an unpleasant task, I have been known to "practice" (out loud) what I'm going to say. I try not to do this with anyone listening.

3. When presented with a plate of food, I work on one section at a time (ie, veggies first, then starch, then meat). This is seen mostly around the holidays -- Thanksgiving in particular. I tend to work around the plate in a clockwise direction, but I notice myself doing that less and less as I get older.

4. I'm a freak for personal hygiene. For instance, in the morning I'm nauseous until I've brushed my teeth, and the idea of not showering for a day makes my skin crawl. It's not that I feel dirty, or freak out over germs -- it's more that I just really enjoy being clean.

5. As an addendum to #4, I'm also a slave to... hmm, what would it be called? "Cosmetic maintenance," maybe? Come hell or high-water, I will see my hairdresser for a trim every 6 weeks, I keep my nails trimmed (meticulously), and I'm hyperaware of the general state of my hands, feet, eyebrows, etc. Basically I like for things to be smooth -- I hate the feel of split ends, dry hands, or uneven nails, and it drives me to distraction.

6. I bake to conquer writer's block.

7. I can NOT listen to two people at once, no matter how hard I try. If I'm on the phone with someone and my fiance starts talking to me, it's like the other voice turns into Charlie Brown's Teacher, and I can't concentrate. This drives him crazy, because he can listen to two people at once.

8. When I'm a passenger, long car rides put me to sleep inordinately fast. It's a struggle to stay awake during one, and usually I have to consume more caffeine than the driver to do so.

9. I can keep other people's secrets better than I can keep my own.

10. I have what has grown to be an irrational fear of fire. Not so much candles or fires in fireplaces, but the idea of fire, if that makes any sense -- like the idea of electric fires. I blame this on one particularly vivid nightmare I had as a child. We live in a fairly old house at the moment (about 30 yrs old), and I fret what feels like constantly about the wiring.

I'm not sure if some of these count as quirks, but it's all I could come up with. :)

2005-11-03T08:57:00.000-05:00

Writers love feedback. It's our crack. It's "The Precious."

That said, not all writers love honest feedback. I like to think of myself as one who does. I, however, prepare myself for honesty by first imagining the worst-case scenario, which usually involves being told my writing is crap. Hard on the heels of "your writing is crap" is the advice that I go back to my day job and do the world a favor -- never again put words to paper. Or, better yet, consign myself to a convent and take a vow of literary silence.

I also think of the single most privately humiliating moment I ever experienced as a writer.

After I finished the first rough draft of my Master's Thesis (oh, and it was rough), I forwarded it to my thesis advisor to keep her apprised of my progress. My advisor forwarded the draft to one of my readers, who had not been apprised of its roughness. The reader then responded to my advisor, who forwarded me her comments. Unfortunately, her comments had been intended for my advisor -- not me.

They were... candid, to put it mildly. (If I wanted to abandon my objectivity regarding the matter, I'd say they were rude, cruel, and unhelpful.) For three days I couldn't look at my draft without crying. I'd never felt so worthless, so stupid. It felt as if the two years I'd spent working up to that point had been completely wasted. Any confidence I'd had up until then was torn down and shredded.

I keep that in mind whenever I request critiques.

That said, I just sent an excerpt off to this gentleman: http://honestcritiques.blogspot.com/ and I am presently trying to anticipate the absolute worst he can tell me. I imagine I'll be on tenterhooks for the next few weeks. I have already imagined a few scathing remarks provided to me free of charge by the darker side of my psyche.

It's inconsequential, but in the end I did end up revising my thesis (since I really had no other option besides abandoning all hope of earning my M.A. and that wasn't going to happen). The final draft was approved by my committee. It remains the single piece of writing of which I am proudest: sixty-three pages of blood, sweat, and tears -- "The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hands: Boredom in Melmoth the Wanderer."

They're ALIVE!

2005-10-26T21:12:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, my mother wanted to have me taken to a psychologist because I used to tell myself stories.

And change voices for each character.

Thankfully my grandmother told her not to break my spirit and to encourage my imagination.

I've noticed whenever I talk about writing with people who don't write, inevitably I come off sounding certifiably insane. Sad, but true. Because for each character that lives in the confines of my head, there is a different voice. Gods and goddesses, demons and angels, housewives, teachers, students, doctors, lawyers, and vampires (yes, there is a difference between those last two), all live in my head. For each character, there is a different voice -- and the voices don't go away when I stop working on a piece. My head is like an ever-expanding boarding house. Old characters from unfinished stories mingle with new characters from current works. They network -- sometimes the old characters come to me after a long time and I realize they'd fit perfectly in what I'm working on now.

But imagine what kind of looks you'd get if you freely admitted that the people in your head talked to you.

Other writers' methods are a mystery to me; for me, it's most fun when a character just... appears out of the ether and starts whispering in my ear. It happened a couple of weeks back, actually. I was getting ready to go out somewhere when I felt that little spark in my mind. Wet hair wrapped up in a towel, I stopped what I was doing and went to the computer just so I could get what she was saying. She has nothing to do with my current, constant project, and nothing at all may come of her, but she was interesting enough for me to want to get to know her better. And so, whenever she deigns to speak to me (which, inevitably, will happen when I'm rinsing shampoo from my hair, or when I'm stuck in traffic), I will do my best to record what she has to say, because you never know when a character has a truly interesting story to tell.

I don't know about anyone else, but sometimes I wonder if a fertile imagination will someday be labeled as a variety of mental illness. Is "hearing voices" indicative of mental illness if you acknowledge those voices to belong to entirely fictional characters?

Or is this a can of worms best left sealed? ;)

2005-10-25T20:49:00.000-05:00

Wilma has come and gone. We were only without power for five hours, total, which was nice. I overprepared, which is typical for me, but if the post-apocalyptic world I was clearly envisioning came to pass, we would have been able to use cereal bars as currency.

The funny thing about storms like this is the emotional wear and tear you undergo -- in addition to the physical wear and tear. You get a week to prepare, it's true (lucky for me I stocked up early, back when it looked like we were going to get hit by Hurricane Ophelia), but something about that pre-hurricane period is unfathomably draining. Your life becomes filled with watching the local news for updates, or checking the NOAA site for different storm tracks. And, eventually, it gets to the point where there's nothing you can do but wait. It's a breeding ground for anxiety.

Waiting out the storm isn't much better. I love a good storm like anyone else, but it's still much of the same: waiting. Rain is pounding the roof, slamming against the windows, wind is knocking down tree limbs and howling. For hours it does this, and there comes a point where you just wish it would stop. Calling it monotonous doesn't seem right, and yet it is. It doesn't matter how many diversions are available -- books, handheld video games, in my case a notebook -- the storm is still raging, still demanding attention.

As for myself, before we lost power I had my laptop open and was working on some editing and rewriting. I didn't get much done -- couldn't concentrate. Once we lost power, I kept plugging away but with little success. Eventually I shut down and went to the bedroom, which had the best natural light. I tried writing, but got no better than two paragraphs, horribly written. I tried reading, but grew irritated with the author's narrative voice. I tried sleeping, but without luck. By the time the storm had passed, I was exhausted. Today wasn't much better; I had difficulty focusing my attention, and I hope to hell that the edits and revisions I made weren't complete disasters. By four o'clock, I was tired, and what I thought would be a fifteen minute catnap turned into nearly an hour.

I think tomorrow will be better. Hopefully my system will react properly to caffeine, instead of simply ignoring its effects. That's most irritating.

I also hope that tomorrow will bring better-behaved characters. At the moment it feels like a troupe of spoiled, unmotivated actors living in my head.

At least it's not a dark and stormy night...

2005-10-24T08:30:00.000-05:00

No, it's a dark and stormy morning instead. Wilma is passing overhead and a bit to the south.

Wilma hasn't been too bad, so far -- at least not where we are. Last year was a different story -- we happened to catch the brunt of Hurricane Jeanne, and it was an experience unlike any I've ever had. It's been said before, but the wind sounded like a freight train. The windows rattled in their panes. In the distance we could hear the hum and pop as a nearby transformer struggled before giving in. (I remember that it sounded a bit like a light-saber duel. Odd.) It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. I was afraid, because I'm human. But a tiny, dark corner stood in awe at the sheer force that Mother Nature wielded.

It puts me in the mood to read Edmund Burke's Philosophical Enquiry into the Nature of the Sublime and the Beautiful. It's been a while since I've read it, and my writing is always significantly darker when I do, I find. I'm tempted to find the book now, but the lights are off (off as opposed to out) and turning on any light right now would kill the mood.

I know it's ridiculous to mention mood when there's a storm raging outside, but it's true.

I'd planned on working on doing some revisions, but after five hours of sleep, I'm not sure how good of an idea that is. There may be coffee involved and possibly a nap later, because my head feels like it's full of lukewarm oatmeal.

*looks up at the TV for a moment*

Good grief, what do these newscasters think they're proving by going out into the storm and standing there? If winds are strong enough to put a lean on a twenty-foot palm tree, a scrawny newsman is going to be blown around like Forrest Gump's feather.

Must idiocy be dramatic?

Cigaretiquette

2005-10-18T06:27:00.000-05:00

I was at a birthday get-together recently, celebrating the day my S.O. (here named "Tiger" -- not because he's a huge Spiderman fan [though he is] but because... hey, we've got a theme working here and I'm going to continue it) came into the world. And it was a fun little shindig, aside from the fact that we were the only non-smokers there.

Okay, okay. I know that a lot of non-smokers have the reputation for being self-righteous, arrogant, and generally unpleasant to be around. I know this. I've seen the self-righteous non-smokers, and, personally, I find them embarrassing. Kind of like when a member of your preferred political party makes a mortal idiot of himself and you wish for a second that you'd had the foresight to register as an Independent.

That said, I wish smokers would consider for a second how unpleasant it can be when surrounded by your least favorite smell, ever. Think about being trapped in an elevator with someone whose perfume gives you a headache. It's not necessarily a bad perfume; you just don't like it. I also hate the Yankee Candle Company "lilac" candles for the same reason: the scent gives me a migraine (though, thankfully, actual lilacs don't affect me at all).

I think this is the case with a lot of non-smokers. Cigarette smoke isn't a moral issue; it's an issue of (dis)comfort. A lot of non-smokers complain that the scent of cigarette smoke sticks to a person long after they've left the company of smokers. Okay, that's true, and I'll admit it's annoying; however, other unpleasant smells stick to a person, too. I, for one, hate frying food because the "fried" scent sticks to me, particularly my hair. The movie-theatre smell is another one that sticks; yeah, everyone loves the smell of popcorn, but who wants to smell of it three hours after the movie's over? Diesel exhaust, barbecue smoke, boiled cabbage... smells stick. And sometimes those sticky smells cause more than just passing annoyance. Sometimes they create a situation that's rife with discomfort.

For example, we were hanging out with partygoers for about two hours before I started getting a wild headache that would only temporarily be tamed by Tylenol. It started at the bridge of my nose, right between the eyes. A dose of acetaminophen beat back the beast for an hour or two, but not for long. Whether it was the same headache that came roaring back with a vengeance, or an entirely new headache, the result was the same: cranky Bunneh. The problem was it was too early in the evening to excuse ourselves gracefully, particularly since Tiger was the guest of honor. I didn't want to take another dose of Tylenol, which in all likelihood would have opened up family discussion for the frequency of my headaches. (I can tell you right now that, for me, headaches fall into three categories: stress headaches, eyestrain headaches, and olfactory-related headaches. I was in no mood to hypothesize about brain tumors.)

In the end, I tried not to think about the pounding in my skull. I told myself it was a case of mind over matter, and that my head hurt because I was allowing it to hurt me.

Did it work? Hell no.

Compounding this, my contact lenses started to itch like mad. (I know there are smokers who wear contacts, and I'm constantly baffled that they can and not get irritated by the fact that the light-as-air bits of plastic clinging to their eyes transforms into something that feels like onion skin.) Lenses that I usually never even notice started to feel like a layer of sand on my eyes, moving across my cornea every time I blinked. It's now three days after the party. I've been wearing glasses, letting my contacts soak. I wore them yesterday, and they still felt pretty uncomfortable. I'm hoping I can get them back to normal without tossing them out (they're disposables) and opening a new pair. I've only had this pair for about a week.

It's hard when you actually enjoy the company and it's all made unpleasant by the fact that when two non-smokers are hanging out with five smokers in an air-conditioned room (living in a tropical climate does not make going outside for air comfortable or practical), there comes a point where the non-smokers actually have to breathe less.

Yes, really. No, that's not an exaggeration.

It would have been rude to leave the party early, as I already said. But we were outnumbered, I think, three to one. It's always difficult when the non-smoker is invited to the smoker's house, because the smoker then loses home-field advantage, so to speak. We don't really have an option aside from not-going (not an option) or going outside (also not an option in a mosquito-laden tropical climate). So, Tiger and I sat there, taking shallow little breaths and trying that adapted "Thinker's" pose that allows the non-smoker to cover his or her nose and/or mouth in order to get a decent breath. It doesn't work, by the way, but whipping out one of those nifty little medical masks made popular and chic during the SARS threat would have been inexcusably rude.

Funny, but rude.

It may sound like an overstatement, saying I couldn't take a breath, but that's really not the case. I suffered a few particularly bad bouts of bronchitis in my younger days, and it's left me, for lack of a better term, bronchially fucked up. Basically every time I took a breath, my lungs were like, "You're shitting me."

So let's paint a picture here, shall we? ~~Outnumbered and flanked by the enemy on every side~~. There's a blue-grey cloud hovering above the dinner table. Bunneh has, at that point, an army of angry, mutant miners pickaxing inside her head; all the sand from the Hawaiian Islands in her eyes; and the lung capacity of about a thimble. At what point is the non-smoker justified in her ire? Etiquette dictated I stay. Mosquitos and a tropical climate dictated I stay inside.

Was I cranky? Damned right I was.

Of course, Bunneh's manners outweigh just about everything else, so on top of the physical discomfort, I swallowed my frustration as well. I was pleasant, smiling through gritted teeth, all the while watching the clock for the moment we could vacate the premises with an iota of grace. Sometimes, yes, there are annoying, self-righteous non-smokers. And sometimes there are those of us who just want to breathe, dammit.

Several days have passed and both Tiger and I are still sniffling, wheezing, and congested. The simple solution, I realize, is to avoid the company of smokers. I'm sure it's what anyone would recommend. There's only one problem.

The smokers in question were his parents and their friends.

2005-10-13T23:51:00.000-05:00

I think I might be a masochist.

I know I'm a compulsive revise-hound.

*considers*

They may well be one in the same. I have been known to spend weeks revising things, tweaking syntax here and there, switching words around like the old shell game, and let's not talk about the question of word choice. I think and overthink scenes and dialogue: Do the words flow naturally? (I usually read it out loud to test it.) Does the conversation follow a logical (or as logical as circumstances allow) course?

And do not even get me started on the quest for the perfect, quippy one-liner.

But tonight -- tonight I started... okay, last night I started a new chapter, and didn't get much writing done today (fiance's birthday: there was a lunch date, there was cake, there was Bunneh returning home to the warren with a blinding headache that I think has to do with the front moving through the state, because the pressure in my head is unreal). So after some tea (a lovely Keemun, the package to which I threw away and I don't think I could buy it again if my life depended on it) and some General Tso's chicken, I figured I was ready to write.

But the head, it pounded.

There were analgesics. Three of them.

And still the head, it pounds.

Feels like it should be a Poe poem, doesn't it?

Once upon an evening stormy,
While I revised a plot-hole -- thorny,
Slaving over many a silly typo I'd never seen before;
While I fixed them, softly swearing,
Suddenly came a headache blaring,
Pounding forth with a vengeance I could not ignore.
"Take some Tylenol" I muttered, to quell the deafening roar;
Three I took, and nothing more.

Or something like that. The rhythm is off, I know. I have a headache.

The fact remains that I want to write, but rather than getting my mind off the stupid pressure in my sinuses, trying to think of words that rhyme with "swearing" is just making things worse.

Should just call it a night, I suppose.

I can't even take comfort in the knowledge that it's a cold front (change in pressure, blah blah blah) doing this to me, because in Florida, an October cold front means temps in the 80's rather than the 90's. Or, ooh, if I'm really lucky, we'll drop down into the 70's!

2005-10-13T18:15:00.000-05:00

Writer's block on other projects leads to senseless ramblings that will, hopefully, jar something loose.

Case in point:

Several years ago I underwent the messiest, most painful breakup of my life. In the time since, I've made an effort to avoid my former beloved, but each time the opportunity comes up, I give in to temptation. It doesn't matter how filthy or weak I feel afterward; I simply can't resist. See, we had such a good relationship while it lasted. But there came a point when I had to end what had become an unhealthy relationship.

In 2002, in the middle of my second year at graduate school, I was forced to give up coffee.

Yeah, I thought it was bad timing too. But at the time I was working on my thesis, taking classes, working at the uni writing center, studying for my MA comprehensive exam, AND working on PhD applications (which entailed studying for the GRE Lit alongside the comp exam). Add to this the fact that I was living in a post-9/11 D.C.

Is it any wonder I got an ulcer?

Since then, I started drinking tea, which works out all right for me. It allowed me to sound intolerably high-end and pretentious when going out with friends, and that's always good for a laugh. Something about having tea when everyone else is having coffee feels wildly sophisticated; I can't explain it any better than that.

The only problem is most places out there serve really awful tea.

No, really. There's more to it than a nifty paper bag filled with leaves and twigs and whatnot. There's a difference between good tea and bad tea and, god help me, I think I've come to a point in my life where I can recognize the difference.

Not long ago I was staying at a very nice B&B in the heart of a sickeningly cute beachside town. While packing for this trip, I had a moment of weakness and tossed a canister of one of my favorite teas (a loose Earl Grey with lavender) in the bag. As an afterthought I grabbed a few packets of pure peppermint tea. I felt like the biggest geek that ever geeked (and maybe just a little like an addict in need of an intervention), but I still packed the tea.

Did I use it? You bet your tanins I used it. (All they had was Lipton. LIPTON. No. Just... no.)

The sad part (sadder than packing my own geektastic tea and using it) is despite the solid, happy relationship I have with tea -- and it is excellent -- I cannot be entirely faithful to the darling little leaves. I love them with all my heart: Earl Grey (yes, with lavender), Oolong, jasmine, Irish Breakfast, Gunpowder Green -- and the Darjeeling (can't forget the Darjeeling).

Despite the surge of righteousness that warms my breast when I drink tea, despite the snuggly comfort of a cuppa on a drizzly, depressing day; despite my limited-edition tetsubin and the $7-an-ounce Oolong in my cupboard that is like an orgasm in a cup -- despite all this, I stray.

It takes a woman stronger than I to resist the Siren call of the latte.

2005-10-11T14:29:00.000-05:00

It's nice to have a tiny corner of the 'Net where I'm not known to anyone -- not even to my circle of online pals. Not that I don't love my online pals, because I do. But sometimes it's nice to have a room of one's own, so to speak.

I am Bunneh.

You may be asking, "Why 'Bunneh'?"

Well, the first answer is: "Because 'Bunny' is way cuter than I am." And the word (as a name or handle) brings up mental images of perky airheadedness, and while I am seldom perky (but occasionally airheaded), I could not make myself adopt "Bunny" as an online name.

The second answer is, because I was born in the year of the Rabbit. As for which year, that's my business.

What do I do? I write, mostly. I've yet to get paid for it, but I write nonetheless. I'm also taking MBA classes part-time, and for some reason (possibly because I am a free spirit with a creative soul) I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would. Ah, well. I shall persevere. And write. Oh, yes -- and read.

What do I write? Whatever strikes my fancy, usually. I have a great deal of fun with literary nonfiction, but fiction is my first love ~~because creativing worlds and people satisfies my God complex.~~ At the moment I'm working seriously (more seriously than I've ever worked for a job at which I got paid) on a novel.

What do I read? Nearly anything I can get my hands on. Austen, Bronte (Emily), Wilde, Sayers, Gaiman, Pratchett... Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones is lovely, and Kelley Armstrong's Bitten was a great deal of fun as well. I've recently been introduced to Jennifer Crusie's writing, and once I take a breath, I'll probably keep reading her as well. I don't read in one genre; if the writing is good, I'll read.

What should I be doing now? Writing. Err... and laundry.