Yawn, Snicker, Snort
Last night was Bad-Good Movie Night. The UnSullen One’s friend Squeaker (everyone gets a little nickname in the house, and on my blog as well. The house nickname is for affection, the blog nickname is to preserve the innocent and guilty alike, ha ha) was over, and we watched Big Trouble In Little China. My God, I used to love that movie. I hadn’t remembered it was a John Carpenter film; Carpenter does schlock so well.
Squeaker went home, and everyone else came home in the middle of The Golden Child. This was, I think, right before Eddie Murphy had that unfortunate coke habit, and while it’s nowhere near as good as his SNL stuff, it’s still one of my favorite movies. I reference it all the time, verbally, but nobody ever gets what I’m talking about (”Ha! I’ve GOT the Knife! Now turn on the goddamn LIGHTS!”) Now the UnSullen One and the Muffin have seen it, maybe they won’t look at me blankly when I go, “I said ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-I want the Knife!”
I am putting together a Hack Manifesto in my head for tomorrow’s writing post. It’s going well. I might throw it out and write about something else, though. You never know. Each Friday it’s pretty much as the spirit moves me, and my spirit’s been awful persnickety and changing its mind several times a day lately.
Speaking of which, I probably have to shelve Weasel Boy and get some revisions done. That would be the most effective use of my time; I’ll get right on that tomorrow. First I’m going to do a big push and see if I can’t get at least the bones of the big showdown out. Then I can wrap everything up with a HEA and shelve the draft for its pickling period.
Producing under emotional fire is good for me. I almost never freak out at high-tension emotional stuff while I’ve got Work going on. All the pressure from the firehose of angst gets bled off in the fiction, and the discipline of working every day gives me a refuge. I can’t go crying into my coffee when I’ve got wordcount to produce, dammit.
As a coping mechanism, it’s pretty awesome. God bless having enough work to get me through two years.
In other completely-random news, I got a much shorter bar on my Monroe. Originally my piercer scoffed at the idea that I’d want something two sizes down from the original piercing bar; most people only get one size down. You want to leave a little room, because oral piercings just love to swell. But even the size-down that everyone transfers to after the initial piercing’s been in for two weeks was just not working out for me, so we went down to (I think) a quarter. The piercer was amazed that I needed such a short bar after only two months of healing, but I have a thin upper lip (but a stiff one, mind you) and a nice deep indent for the flat back of the stud on the inside, which made the shorter bar not just possible but necessary.
So last weekend I got the ultra-short one, and it is now comfortable as all get-out. This is what the piercing was meant to be, and I feel like a pretty pretty princess with it in. Since I am short, round, and built like a truck, I am nowhere near pretty princesshood, but I FEEL it, and that’s the important thing.
So much of life is how good you can feel about it. It’s not quite optimism–it’s more like a non illigitamus carborundum that can be mistaken for optimism, but is really a refusal to put up with crap from any quarter. One of the things I enjoyed about Dante Valentine as a character was her straightforward approach to all sorts of problems–get out the goddamn katana and cut the mofo in half. There’s a certain amount of Gordian-knot-slicing that I endorse, and a certain amount of patient untangling I endorse as well. The problem is balance.
As the Abbot says in The Golden Child, “You must know WHEN to break the rules!”
Over and out.
