nightbird: Mucha illustration, young peasant holding scythe and grain (jazz age)
Unbelievable landscapes — totally unreal and just real enough.

Last night I picked up an old copy of The Mystery Writer's Handbook that my mom gave me the last time I was home. I think a lot of my sensibilities about writing come from mysteries, even though I don't particularly seek them out. My mom does, though, and would always play them whenever she was doing something that required a backdrop: chores, walks, car trips, commuting. We also were regular viewers of Mystery! on PBS. At a young age I was a particular devotee of Hercule Poirot, Brother Cadfael, Hettie Wainthropp and Rumpole of the Bailey. Mysteries were a constant presence growing up, and I always loved the suspense and the occasional terror, often mixed in with fantastic humor and great characters. Even though I don't seek out the genre, I also think it's kind of a perfect genre, and as this book points out, there's a strong reliance on form that really serves the stories well.

Anyway, Mom gave me the book because she thought I might find it useful, and I think I really will, given the quick flip-through I gave it before bed. I fell asleep thinking about how I should finish The Falling Woman (a constant theme here, I know) and let myself move on to other things. Setting up a routine is really the trick, from what I can see, and NaNo did that so effectively by creating the panic of meeting your wordcount every day. I have today off work, and maybe now I have a plan for what to do when I'm not clearing out my apartment in advance of the Imminent Move (which sounds like a great title for something, now that I think of it).
Music:: "Nixon's Walk," Michael Kamen (Band of Brothers soundtrack)
nightbird: Mucha illustration, young peasant holding scythe and grain (August and nothing after)
I lied about not being able to go on. I took a lesson from my improv: I was overthinking it.

This is all true.

* * *

Here's what I always remember about Dow Lake: the mud. The sludge by the reeds, away from the beach where we weren't allowed to go, because it was all goose droppings. There were always flocks of Canada geese at Dow Lake, and you were always aware of them, and interested and curious, and wary. Dow Lake was one of the only beaches in my life for a very long time. We tended toward cold, rocky beaches on our vacations: Seattle, Chatauqua, Kelly's Island. Read more... )
Mood:: 'calm' calm
Music:: "The Park," Feist

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