I Wear My Heart on My Sleeve

Words!

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 00:11:20 GMT

If you want me to give you a good reason to talk about yourself, post "Words!" in the comments and I'll give you five of your own.

Meanwhile, these from martinlivings

Utah
While I have spent most of my adult life in Australia, I'm American-born, Utahn specifically.

Most people outside the US tend to think that an American's an American's an American. And granted, while we do all share the same uberculture traits, we also come from our smaller, local cultures.

And it is by our local cultures (whether born or adopted) that we tend to define ourselves.

(Frex, my mother's from Appalachia. And while she's lived most of her adult life in Utah, you'll never take the Southern out of her.)

Me, I was born 'n' bred in Utah and I grew up eating Jello.

Some more elements of growing up in Utah, under the dominant culture: hardly anyone I knew drank coffee, I rarely heard an adult say a "bad" word until I got to university, teenage drinking and smoking belonged only to the "bad kids", nobody cared if you were a virgin (and probably respected you more because you were), and everyone was expected to go to college.

Every culture has its bad side. Why would Utah be any different. Dunno if this is true for other cultures in the US (it certainly isn't for Western Australia), but Utahns like to hide the fact that there's problems within the culture.

Things like perfectionism (which is nothing like the quality "striving for excellence"). There is this pervading undercurrent of perfectionism that drives some people to think that everything in their life has to be Just Right. It affects mostly women. They have to look just right, they have to succeed as a Relief Society President, their kids have to be the envy of parents everywhere (and successful in their own rights, much more so than their peers), and the must bake a mean cookie, the casserole of perfection and the most excellent jello salad. All of which are praised lavishly at the next Ward potluck supper.

Supermom must be super.

We all know, even if only subconsciously, that nobody is perfect. We have our flaws, we drop the ball, and we sometimes burn the jello. But it is a social faux pas to let these flaws show. Sure, you can have your flaws, but go have them behind closed doors.

This concept of perfectionism comes from the core belief that if one does the right things, one will have joy. Alas, far too many people forget what the "right things" are, and end up doing the wrong things. That is why they are miserable.

The right things: love one another, be thou humble, forgive one another, do not run faster than you have strength, talk to God regularly, seek learning out of the best books, use your talents.

Still, for all its imperfections, I'm glad I was raised in Utah, for I managed to avoid the stress and traps that will plague the culture of my daughters, and had ready access to opportunities that, already, I must hunt down for them.

Oh, one more advantage to Utah: Released Time Seminary. I am not looking forward to five years of getting up early to drive Their Ladyships to Early Morning Seminary.

music
Y'all know I'm a musician, right? I've spoken of it before.

One of the reasons I love music is the ability to get into the minds of others. When one is playing in an orchestra or singing in a choir, everyone in the group becomes of one mind. You're all thinking similar thoughts and achieving the same goal. You get, literally and figuratively, in rhythm with someone else.

It's like you can sense what they're doing just before they do it. Synergy, I guess it could be called.

Audiences have a certain energy about them, an unseen wave of telepathic communication. When you perform, whether for a crowd of one, or a crowd of a million, you can get a sense of the audience. A wise performer reacts to what the audience is thinking.

You want to please your audience. You want them to be happy they're listening to you. Nothing's worse than playing to an indifferent or a hostile audience.

But when the audience loves you, it's the greatest feeling. Through the roar of their genuine applause, you know you've made them happy.

writing
Deep down I've always known I would be a writer. Even when I wasn't focusing on being a writer, others (like my writing mentor) could see that I was destined to be a writer.

Yet I haven't done much writing of late. My dreams are still there, not yet killed by bad book sales or the drunken bitterness of mid-listery. But I'm not doing everything I need to do to be the writer I want to be.

I've got goals, but I'm letting myself (and my culture down) by not pursuing them as hard as I should.

I shouldn't let myself be so lazy. After I got into the television habit with The Biggest Loser AU a few months ago, I find myself watching more television. Now, some is okay, and I am choosing shows wherein I can study the storytelling, but still, I'm watching too much for my taste.

A writer cannot be continually successful unless they have the motivation to sit down when they don't feel like it and crank out wordage.

Right now I'm lacking that, and I must do something about it.

wraising
I love my Ladyships. Children have got to be the biggest and best thing about my life. Motherhood is intense, and there are times when it greatly interferes or even supersedes my other goals, but I do receive compensation.

While a pregnancy can "just happen", being a good mother is a deliberate process involving forethought.

I've got plans, and I carry them out. Long before I had children, I put some serious thought into what I would need to do to prevent common problems (like spoilage and other negative traits) and put together a strategy.

So far, it seems to be working. My Ladyships are clever, engaging and loveable beasts. They do me great honour when they go over to someone's place and behave themselves. One of my biggest fears was that my daughters would turn out to be those obnoxious brats that would make people cringe.

You know the ones. You have known the ones. Your sister's kids, perhaps, or the offspring of a friend. The ones that, every time you know your sister or your friend is coming over, your stomach clenches at the thought, "Is she bringing her kids?" Because you know your house/cat/sanity will not survive the ordeal.

I know I've succeeded in raising pleasant children because I have people come up to me out of the blue and say, "we'd love to have your daughters over again." (And in Australia, unlike Utah, when someone says something to your face, they pretty much mean just that.)

I am not afraid to take my children places because I know that, for the most part, they'll behave themselves.

Maybe some time I'll tell you what I did right.

wreligion ;)
I write SFF. Most of my friends and peers as an adult are those who write, watch or otherwise appreciate SFF. With that culture comes a certain type of person who doesn't accept the status quo, but questions everything.

There's not much room for religion in the SFF culture. Religion involves a great deal of having faith in something unseen, and the "proof" of what one has faith in consists of a warm, steady feeling within one's heart. This is quite a different approach from the scientific method.

And here I am, an SFF writer who is highly religious. Now, it could be my particular flavour of religion (LDS) that allows me to have a foot in both worlds. Dunno. Don't care to experiment on that.

One thing I like about my religious practice is that it frees me from fear.

I do not fear death. (Likewise, I don't fear taxes. {g}) Sex is fear-free; I don't need to worry that I could catch an STD, and if I happen to fall pregnant, that's okay. I don't have to be afraid I'll do something stupid while drunk. If His Grace and I suddenly lose our jobs and we can't get work for a whole year, I won't have to worry about how I'll feed my children. Stuff like that. Much of what people fear in life, my religion frees me from that.

I do not fear Hell, whether for myself or others. Now, this is a particular quality of my own religion, and I think it's a sad thing that there are other flavours of my brand of faith that sincerely believe that if someone doesn't believe in their flavour, they'll be damned.

So I don't worry overmuch about you lot, in the long run.

All those little niggly fears that many of you seem to have? I am not so plauged by them, and that's a liberating feeling.

Why are we fat?

Sun, 12 Jul 2009 06:14:53 GMT

Australians love and respect Dr Norman Swan (and his radio show Health Watch on the ABC) who isn't afraid to use big scientific words.

Recently his show featured an interview with Dr Robert Lustig, Professor of Pediatric Endocrinology at the University of California in San Francisco, specifically about the childhood obesity epidemic.

This is a really, REALLY good interview, with lots of cellular biology info, such as the roles of insulin, leptin and how the liver metabolises fructose.

It gives us an idea of what we can do to help improve the obesity epidemic, not just in children, but in adults as well.

Proper diet and exercise is the best treatment, of course, but Dr Lustig explains why (and it ain't about burning calories, but about changing the intracellular chemical cycles).

(Did I mention before how much I love biology?)

Alas, it looks like I'm going to have to give up drinking straight fruit juice.

Score!

Wed, 08 Jul 2009 07:44:31 GMT

So I'm roaming an op-shop (second-hand shop), looking for jeans to fit Their Ladyships when I came across this, in excellent condition, for ten bucks:

This is a Rival "Crock Pot" 3.5L slow cooker model 3100 from the late 1970's.

Dude! VINTAGE SCORE!!!!

I grew up with one of these, and my folks made all sorts of great stuff. Theirs was a dull mustard colour, while mine is the burnt orange colour you see here.

Also, there are some slight differences: Rival sold as a different brand (Monier) in Australia, so it took me a while to hunt down details online. (model 3150F equivalent)

That said, the same make & model is selling in Australia on eBay for about $40, and ditto in the US for about the equivalent price.

I've been jonesing for a crock pot for a few years now, but have met with resistance from His Grace for several reasons, including the lack of storage space in my kitchen. However, the juxtaposition of vintage goodness and cheap price was too good to resist. Yes, he'll balk, but that's only because he's never owned a crock pot before. (His childhood meals were abused in a pressure cooker.) I shall soon win him over to the Way of the Crock Pot.

Right now my crock pot is simmering away on some yummy barbeque chicken legs. Maybe tomorrow I'll try a lamb curry. And after that, slow-roast beef. Proper stews, chicken falling off the bone, and maybe even cake. In fact, I may never cook on the stove again.

(I'm kidding about that last part.)
(Oh yes, I found jeans for Their Ladyships.)

Writerly Attitude

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 23:33:12 GMT

raecarson wrote an excellent post on Writer's Jealousy.

(Just for the record, I've always loffed Rae. She is Teh Awesome.)

The post and the comments are all very interesting read. Go read it if you haven't.

Got me to thinking--that self-introspection type of thinking. I once experienced Writer's Jealousy. And the bitterness against publishers that often goes along with it, and the sour grapes and so on...

It was early on in my career, and shortly after I'd moved to another country where the social structure wasn't what I was used to, blah, blah, and I had a hard time adjusting and coping. I wasn't having as much progress in my career as I wanted, and instead of picking up my game (which is what I really should have been doing), I started laying blame everywhere but me.

Yet I kept slogging on in my apprenticeship, because I had The Dream, and The Dream had already proven its resilience through Grad-course writing classes (talk about an incestuous hive of jealous go-nowhere writers!) and almost-but-not-quite television scripts.

I hung out with the local band of writers, I went to the local writers' festivals, and I maintained my ties with previous writer orgs I had from my home country.

One day (dunno when), I noticed a contrast between all the groups I associated with. Half the groups were a bunch of bitter whiner-babies and the other half weren't. Of the half that were, very few were published and scantily at that. The half that weren't whiner-babies? They had an increasing level of member success. We weren't talking half-baked self-publishing stuff, but some major book contracts and repeated short-story successes.

"Oh," I said to myself as I received enlightenment in a bowl of rice. "Attitude is everything."

I learned the following lessons:

1. Do not be jealous of other writers. It is not skill and beauty alone that determine success. It's a whole host of reasons.
2. Do not be bitter against publishers. It is not their job to reward a job well done, like a teacher giving out A+'s. It's their job to take a gamble on a commodity they believe they can convince people to buy. Art has nothing to do with it.
3. Ditch the whiner-babies and go hang out with the success stories. It will rub off, especially if you pay attention.
4. Ultimately, I, alone, am responsible for putting myself in the place where success will find me.
5. Writing stuff will get me somewhere. Whining will not.

What writerly lessons have you learned?

Stocktake: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 23:11:15 GMT

Good: I get to work in a library without a single patron in sight!

Bad: Scanning 55,000 books is tedious.

Ugly: Librarians in their "slouch clothes". {g}

Nah, it ain't so bad, our library stocktake. It's a bit of a change from what we normally do, and I enjoy change. Gives me room to stretch.

Second GBU list:

Good: discovering books you didn't know existed in the collection, like the musical score to the national anthems of every single country on earth (for piano!)

Bad: being unable to check said item out. (There's a freeze on checking books in or out of the library, and even if there wasn't, the anthem score is in the reserves. Bummer. Maybe I'll get 'em to make an exception for me after stocktake.)

Ugly: allergies from knocking the dust of the Dusties. (Dusties are books in a library's collection that have never been checked out.) Also, discovering entire ranges of reserve items that were mis-catalogued.

Living in Australia - The End of the Financial Year (EOFY)

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 03:14:40 GMT

The Australians have wisely set their financial year to end 30 June (and the new one start 1 July). The initial primary benefit of this is that it doesn't clash with the calendar year and all the holiday hoopla that happens in December.

So one can spend money and hop in the ol' caravan for a couple of weeks away over the New (Calendar) Year without having to worry about having to get one's finances squared away first.

Why the mid-calendar year deadline? Not sure. I suspect it may have something to do with the 1915 Income Tax Act that moved the collection of income taxes from local state governments to the Federal government. (Am researching, but haven't come up with a definite answer yet. If I find one, I might post the answer here, if I can be bothered. Then again, who can be bothered knowing more about taxes than necessary?)

FYI: Any reference to a financial year is from when the financial year began: the tax year that ended last week was Financial Year 2008. We are now into day four of Financial Year 2009.

There's a little Australianism called EOFYS (or the unacronymized version: End of Financial Year Sale). Related to a Stocktake Sale, EOFYS is a great time to go out and score bargains as lots of shops and companies get rid of stuff. I scored a WiiFit for just over a hundred bucks AU. Unfortunately, I couldn't get the WiiSport Pack one place was bundling with it, as they had completely sold out in the first two hours of their sale. (Dunno what they're going to do for the rest of the fortnight-long sale.) So I went somewhere else that matched their price for me. Competition is fierce during EOFYS.

General Trivia:

Taxes are collected by the Australian Tax Office (ATO) and every taxable person has (or should have) a Tax File Number (TFN), almost the equivalent of the American Social Security Number. Almost.^[1]
The Australian equivalent of an American W-2 form is called a "group certificate".
There is no equivalent to the 1040EZ form. Everyone pretty much fills out the same form.
The people clever enough to be computer literate and have simple-ish tax situations file their taxes through a computer program called eTax^[2], available as a free download from the Australian Tax Office.
Tax Deadline Day (equivalent of US's 15 April) is the most appropriate 31 October.
Australians get tax breaks for contributing to the Australian film industry. (No, this doesn't mean movie tickets are tax deductible...but they should be.)

^[1] Unlike the SSN, the TFN is only used for tax identification purposes, whereas the SSN is often used as a generic serial number. When I lived in the US, I got mine when I was just a wee tiddler, and it was used on my driver's license, as my university ID, and all sorts of things.
^[2] eTax quite a clever little thing with little explanatory help links everywhere, and some impressively subtle hand-holding. I've used it for the past seven or eight years or so. Definitely a lot better than filling out forms by hand. Those whose taxes are complex or who can't be bothered doing their own use a tax accountant. Those who are not clever enough to do their own or hire an accountant generally get screwed.

Now all I need's a lab...

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 12:25:46 GMT

If I had the time and the equipment, I would so love to study the common head louse and see if I could find a way of easily disabling its life cycle.

First Ladyship is constantly getting head lice, and I am constantly having to fight them. The maldison shampoo is becoming ineffective, and the conditioner and fine-tooth comb is tedious and not as successful as I would hope. (Also, First Ladyship hates being "debugged".)

But if I could find a way of disrupting their life cycle, like rendering them sterile, or preventing newly-hatched lice from maturing, or changing their digestion so they starve to death before reproducing, I would be a happy pseudobiologist.

And if whatever I discovered was safe for humans, I would be a rich pseudobiologist.

Meanwhile, I can't wait until that nit-removal salon they have in Sydney and/or Melbourne opens a branch in Perth.

More Words

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 00:12:16 GMT

These from mnfaure, an expat like me.

(The) Actor</b>

The Actor (aka British actor Richard Armitage) is a passion of mine. I first saw him in Ultimate Force. "Oh, he's the cutest one of the bunch," I said to His Grace. "I much prefer him to the others." However, I didn't dwell more on him once the show was over.

Then I saw him as Guy of Gisborne in BBC's Robin Hood and was smitten. Socks were completely blown off and have never returned to my feet.

It was the strangest thing. It was like something clicked in me. I could never understand the whole Brad/George thing until I met Richard. (And you can keep Brad and George.)

Being a British television actor whose fame is only just emerging, Richard hasn't gone all distant and unapproachable, like many Hollywood stars. He was actually available to his fans. You could fire off a fan letter to him and actually expect a reply. Additionally, he'd send the occasional message to his fans through the various fora and web sites.

Turns out that Richard the person is a really nice bloke. Say hello to him in the street, he'll stop and have a quick chat, if he's not pressed for time, and not once have I ever heard of him refusing to have a happy snap with you. He comes across a little shy and not at all obnoxious, but always has a kind word and smile for his fans (and even a hug, if asked).

Professionally, he's a versatile actor gaining in popularity not just with his fans, but also with any cast or crew he works. Reports say he comes on set with his background researched, his lines learned and always on time. He doesn't get stubborn, intentionally blind or go all diva-ish. He's a good communicator and does his best to work well with directors, crew and fellow castmembers. (That alone, no matter who you are, always earns my respect.) Probably explains why he's constantly employed, even overlapping jobs of late.

Just don't get burned out, Richard dear.

He tends to keep his private life private and has never been involved in the merest hint of scandal.

For me, he makes my soul happy. When the dementors get to me, nothing makes me feel better than the judicious application of a bit of Richard to my heart.

Here, have a gander at a recent photo shoot of Richard. Yum!

Prefer his chocolate voice? Here's a Ted Hughes poem, "Song" on YouTube, read by him and set to images and music.

Half of me wants to convert you all to the yummy loveliness of Richard Armitage. The other half of me wants to keep him all to myself.

If you've never seen him before, I recommend you start with watching the BBC miniseries "North & South".

Should Richard and I ever meet in Real Life, I have three ambitions:
1. I should like to make him laugh.
2. I want him to remember me fondly, preferrably me having made the sort of impression that would make him happy to see me again.
3. I want a kiss from him. Not a simple peck, but something more like this.

Composing
Ah, another thing that makes my heart happy and satisfies my soul. I love writing music. I love taking the tunes in my head, putting them down and sharing them with others.

For me, it's not enough to just listen to music. I've got to play it, I've got to create it. I've always got a tune tumbling around in my head.

I own an mp3 player with voice recording capabilities, and my mobile phone has limited recording capabilities as well. If I get a snippet of a tune, I'll sing bits of it into the recorder, like a writer would make notes to a story.

Right now I'm busy putting together the music for a roadshow.

Here's a link to a few tunes I wrote a decade ago. Here's some more recent stuff that I did for the World Horror Convention last year.

Ive got a whole lotta stuff I've done that I haven't stuck up. Eventually I'll get around to it. I'm busy revamping my whole web site. As it's not a high priority, it's gonna take me a long time.

Composing music is like writing, only instead of using words for rhythm, rhyme, sound, and theme, I use music notes. Very much similar processes, though.

Faith
Faith is the belief in things not seen. It has an important role in my life, in that there is much I do not know, that I have not seen, and yet I do believe, for that which I have seen has proven itself.

Faith and belief in my God has some nice benefits I'm grateful for:

I have no fear of death. If others die, I am not consumed by overwhelming grief. I feel a bit of sorrow because I miss them, but it doesn't devastate me. I do not dread my own death, and sometimes I actually look forward to it. Mortality is nice and all, but it isn't the whole of my existence.

I have a certain concept of the universe and my place within it. It's a nice feeling to not just know one's place, but one's purpose. I know where I've been, I know who I am, I know where I'm going. Also, I don't fear for others. While I'd love that they had the same knowledge I do, they have what they have, and eventually they'll figure things out on their own. I know a few other religions are dead certain that those who "don't believe" are "going to hell". My religion doesn't. I find that a comforting thought.

I have a code of morals that I didn't have to develop the hard way. My faith's one of preventative measures. The stupid things I've done in life, in comparison to the tales I've heard of others, really are minor peccadillos. I hate learning things the hard way.

Expat
I spent my childhood in the US and my adult life in Australia. I've moved here (Oz) permanently, even though I maintain a business address in the States. I'm a dual citizen, so I travel on two passports and get to vote in two national elections. I only pay tax in the country of residence, tho.

I moved to Australia because my husband, His Grace, is Australian.

Believe me, while I have a soft spot for the concept and ideals of my birth country, I greatly prefer living in Australia. Here, I am removed from fear of poverty and health issues. The welfare system and medical care in Australia is vastly superior to any in the US. Should I lose my job, the government will take care of me financially until I can find another. Have children? They'll lend assistance, financially and socially. Have a medical emergency? I can go to the emergency room and get care without having to worry about how I shall pay for it. And should it turn out to be something serious, like cancer, I do not have the additional financial burden that could absolutely wipe me out.

Granted, there are other social ills the Australian culture face that weren't as prevalent behind the Zion Curtain, such as rampant alcoholism and hoonism, but I can guard my family against those a lot easier than I could guard my family against the threat of American poverty.

While the day-to-day living in Australia is vastly superior, I do miss the cultural aspect of the US. I miss the hoopla surrounding holidays. I miss white Christmasses and hot Julys. I miss Twinkies and Jolly Ranchers and aisles and aisles of breakfast cereals. I miss Mexican fast food. I miss fireworks. I miss roadtrips.

And so, to comfort myself, I'm gonna go have a Tim Tam Slam.

Dedication
Interesting that this one was last on the list, because dedication applies to all the above items.

Really, in life I'm a wishy-washy person. My interests vary and are all over the place. I'll have an interest for a while, then end up forgetting or neglecting it. Painting, sewing, exercise, gardening, genealogy... Don't get me wrong; I love those things, and keep coming back to them from time to time.

But there are things in my life that demand dedication, and I give it cheerfully. Not a day goes by that I don't indulge in one way or another: music, writing, religion, family.

It takes dedication to achieve any level of proficiency in music. Once there, it never really leaves your blood, and so one must indulge, every day if possible.

Writing. Most of you understand. It crowds the brain and one must put these words down just so they'll leave you alone.

Religion. I've thrown myself in full-hearted and have not looked back, much to the bemusement of the culture I currently live in and most of the people (like you lot) that I associate with. To tell you about my religion isn't going to do you much good. But oh! If only I could share the peace in my heart that it brings.

Family. A family demands devotion or it will disintegrate at best and self-destruct at worse. I'm happy that my daughters are growing up to as intelligent, healthy and respected human beings. There might not be much we can do about how our parents raised us, but there is everything we can do about how we raise our children.

It doesn't count as insomnia if one wakes up at 6am.

Living in Australia - The UBD

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:42:18 GMT

I live in Australia. I didn't always live here. I grew up in another country and emigrated here as an adult. That gives me an observational advantage, in that I see the things that most foreigners wouldn't think to ask about Australia and most Australians would take for granted.

For example...

Australians navigate their cities thanks to the help of a mapbook commonly referred to (at least in Western Australia) as a "UBD".^[1]

Wanna know where you're going? Pull out the trusty, rusty ol' UBD.

It's not uncommon for your mates to include the UBD page number and grid reference on an invite to a party. After all, everyone's got a copy of the UBD in the bottom of their car (and if they don't, guaranteed a random stranger does).

A UBD is indispensable. You simply cannot navigate Perth (or any Aussie city) without one.

This was quite different from the system of address coordinates used in Salt Lake. Imagine a giant XY grid, where home numbers are not ordered according to how many houses you are from the beginning of the street, but your ultimate location on the ubergrid. Streets, likewise, have a coordinate. So, 3475 E 2100 S is an address so easy to find that any yutz who passed 8th grade math could find it. (What about the streets with "real" names, like Orana Drive? No prob. They, too, had a coordinate number, easily looked up in the Salt Lake phone book.)

Now, try finding 17 Banksia Road, Cooloongup, Australia. See what I mean? In order to know where you're going, you need a UBD.

At first I was bemused by this utter dependence on a map book (with a good 400+ pages or so), but have since come to accept it as a part of Aussie life, like jelly fish and double-gees.

^[1] UBD is a company that publishes map books. There are others, but for the most part, UBD is the one everyone tends to get each year.

Bruised Basil

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 13:17:23 GMT

Poor kitty. My cat, Basil (Brush, not Fawlty) was rather beaten up today by a neighbor cat, known as Slinky Malinky.

Slinky used to be a well-behaved cat in the neighborhood, following his Mom to and from the bus stop as she went to work. He used to stay on his side of the street, and flee in fear from any creature or car.

But lately, he's gotten some balls.

A few months ago he attacked and presumably ate the neighbor's guinea pig. Last month he attacked the same neighbor'd dog (in their back yard), leaving a nasty scratch across her belly.

The past week Slinky's been sitting on the border of our property and he and Basil have been making loud warning noises to each other. I've gone out and frightened Slinky Malinky off, but yesterday, he didn't wanna go. I pretty much had to kick him to make him scram, and that's *after* I dumped a glass of water on him.

He's one determined bugger. I'm gonna have to beat some territorial attitude out of him. Normally I'm fond of cats, but this one's lost my respect.

So today my neighbor reported that Basil and Slinky Malinky had a rather nasty brawl on her front lawn. She managed to frighten off Slinky, but by then, it was too late. Basil lost the brawl.

There's a snowfall of white fur all over her front lawn. This battle did not go well. I suspect Slinky's unneutered, not a responsible owner choice. (Me, I believe *all* cats in Australia should be spayed/neutered, unless you have a license for breeding.)

Poor Basil's been injured, but I'm not sure the extent. His Grace had to go find him, and has dealt with him, as I had music students at the time. Right now, Basil is curled up under the couch, clearly in some pain. I'll check on him tomorrow. If he's got some serious issues, like raw wounds or worse, I'll take him to the vet.

My poor kitty! He was my first baby. I hope he's going to be all right.

I also hope my daughter's not prescient. For the past two weeks she's been asking if, when Basil dies, can we get a dog?

Reporting in.

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 06:13:20 GMT

Just so you know I've written over 1200 words of fiction this week, ones I'm happy to keep for now.

Goal reached.

I promise I'll write more before the end of the week.

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 06:10:33 GMT

The lovely and thoughtful purdypiedad gave me my words.

Reply to this meme by yelling "Words!" and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then post them in your LJ and explain what they mean to you.

Transplant I grew up in Utah, behind the Zion Curtain, in an extremely homogenous part of the Salt Lake Valley. Drove me nuts, because I fail at being a conformist. (However, the ideas that spawned my birth culture did pander to my meritocratic leanings, so it wasn't a total loss.)

So I moved from an American city to an Australian town (five pubs and half a theatre) and suffered some severe culture shock. Church-wise I moved from a very populous and talented ward and stake to a teeny-tiny little branch inhabited by some extremely country folk. It was there that I learned that my faith is really a personal relationship between me and God. Honestly, I didn't know, as my faith pervades my birth culture, and often one cannot tell the difference between conformity and personal devotion until that devotion is put under a pressure test.

I passed.

Culture shock is not a pleasant process. It demands the surrender of ideas and practices that you thought would be with you forever--if you thought of them at all.

Fortunately, a year later, we moved to Perth, a city about the same size as Salt Lake, and I was better able to adapt to a new culture.

Transplanting to the other side of the planet was a mind-expanding event for me. I was able to view not just my birth culture, but the American Uberculture from the outside. I also got to experience a different way of life. Good for the soul, ultimately.

I recommend everyone have a chance to go live somewhere very different for a significant amount of time. Opens one's eyes.

Would I ever move back to the US? Only if I was independently wealthy. Life's just too good here in Australia.

Music Music fills my soul. I love it. Ever since I first laid fingers on a piano at age two, music's been a part of my life.

I am not so much an appreciator, but a performer and a creator. It is not enough to just listen to it. I must participate. I must become part of the whole.

There is something magical about being part of the music. I loved my years in an orchestra because of that. It is a wonderful feeling to be able to contribute to a whole, to be absorbed by it and turn out something wonderful. It is a sense of belonging, of being needed.

Some chicks may not understand why their guitar-playing boyfriend prefers the band to them. That's only because they're not musicians themselves. The band demands, but the band also gives, far more than it asks. It's a heady feeling.

Ever sing in a choir, a good one, where the fellow choir members know how to blend? It's great. You can feel the music in your very bones. It's seductive, it's addictive. You've found the place where you belong.

Music is one of the greatest teaching tools known to man. You may remember very little of your years in elementary school, but chances are you know the songs you learned there. At church we teach our Primary-aged children lots and lots of songs. As they grow older, they may not remember the lessons we taught, but they remember every single song. In high school Biology class I started setting information to tunes in an effort to remember them. (frex, the nervous system: "Sodium flows in, potassium flows out, that's what an impulse is all about." Shame, really, that I never got around to setting the Krebs Cycle to tune. I would have scored a 5 on my AP exam.)

Wanna remember stuff? Set it to music. I taught my 2yo and my 3yo daughters their addresses and phone numbers through music. And yahknow what? It's stuck with them ever since. (If we move, I'll have to go through the process all over again.)

I compose music. Self-expression. Ask me to play a tune for you some time.

Self-educated

Doctrine & Covenants 93:36 The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.

Doctrine & Covenants 88:118 ....yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith.

Between my own natural abilities and my culture, I have been instilled with a love of knowledge and of learning. Knowing things makes me happy. It helps me makes sense of the world.

I love picking up new information and new skills. I love having the power to go and do, to become, to create, all because of the knowledge I've gained.

I can do stuff! I know how to change the oil on my car, I know how to play the piano, I know how to fix computers, I know the physics behind sound, I can solve problems, I can invent things... all because I know stuff.

Some people ask how I can do the things I do. Simply, I went out and learned how. Sure, I earned a Bachelor's degree and I'm currently working towards my AMusA, but once I was out of school, I never truly gave up the education habit.

I've never stopped learning. The fact that I work at a library helps. I have constant exposure to books on all sorts of interesting subjects, from beekeeping to speaking Latin and more.

The more I learn, the more I can see the patterns of the world. You'd be surprised what's out there.

Library I got my first library card at the age of three. Never looked back since.

I love books and I love knowledge. Can't get enough. (I'm so glad they invented the Internet in my lifetime.)

As an adult, it seems that my day jobs have either been in a school, a library, or a school library.

My second novel was about a long-lost Library of the Universe, a forgotten version of the Internet's Wayback Machine.

Libraries are our repositories of our knowledge, our wisdom, our cultures, our histories, everything that makes us human. And here some people think they're just a place to keep books.

Daughters One of the reason I chose the husband I did was because I knew he'd be a good father to my children. That's always been a criteria for me. (So yeah, if I ever dated you, even only once, I was scouting you out for your paternal potential.)

It took us five painful years to get a "keeper" (aka First Ladyship). A second daughter soon followed.

Right now it looks like I may never have any more children. That's a sad thought, but not as sad as those five years when I thought I'd never have any.

My daughters are my greatest treasures and I do my best to ensure they grow up functional, strong and respectable human beings. My greatest hope is that they shall be better than their mother.

I love my little squirrels!

Enough about me?

Through the clarity of insomnia...

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 17:36:22 GMT

...I have realised that when I whine about writing and life, I'm not whining about writing at all, but life, especially the things I think I can't, or know I can't, change.

I'm unconsciously applying metaphor. How writerly of me.

Things I Can't Change, but Wish I Could:

1. The past.
2. Time, esp. the movement thereof.
3. The actions and opinions of others.
4. Bad Juju.

(I, at least, still function under the belief that I can change the opinion of God from time to time.)

Things I Think I Can't Change, but Probably Could:

0. As soon as I realise I can change something, I tend to. (There are a few exceptions, but that is due to something else, usually behaviour, needing to be changed first.)

I had a dream last night that God gave someone a candle and He gave me a Super Trouper. The person who got the candle looked at it and pondered its meaning. Me, my hand came into contact with the Super Trouper and I got burned. Feel free to analyse.

The opposite of a wish list

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 10:44:36 GMT

Time to whine about (lack of) writing again.

This week I got about five hundred new words of fixon. Granted, most of them sucked because they had no voice to them. (Do give me points for them being grammatically and logically correct.)

I hate it when that happens to me. If I'm not in the zone (for reasons usually involving hormones), I lose my voice.

So I'll be cutting out those five hundred words and tossing them into the "counts towards the million" pile, 'cause I can't use 'em anywhere else.

The other week when I was horribly sick with a cold, I had entire days of nothing but staying home and being sick. I got so much writing and editing done. My soul was happy.

Now that I've had a taste of writing as much as I can, I find I want more.

But regular life has resumed. I want to write more, am constantly wishing I could write more, but I don't.

Several factors contribute to this:

1. That perpetual plague of housework. It seems like my house is in a constant state of mess. I cannot in good conscience let it get to the state of toxicity in favour of writing time. But does it have to take so long for me to accomplish what should be some really simple fifteen-minute tasks? I honestly can't figure out why it takes me so long. It takes me a good thirty minutes (at least, I timed it the other day) to do the daily dishes of four people. How is this possible? If it wasn't for the environmental impact, I'd do away with dishes entirely and eat off paper.

(No, I haven't contracted a housekeeper yet, more fool me.)

2. Job Demands This includes not just my day job, but my private music students as well. A day job is kind of necessary to support Point Number Three, as well as the car to get them there. The private students are an altruistic way of earning a little extra money to support my own habit of music lessons.

I love my day job and have no intention of giving it up, but some days the work load gets heavy and there goes all my time. This sucks if I'm feeling creative that day.

I love music; that is no secret. There are nowhere near enough musicians here in Rockingham (being a bluecollar sort of place), and I'm trying to rectify the situation. Half my students are a joy and the other half are difficult to teach (DTT). The DTTs suck a lot of energy out of me, and what I charge isn't nearly enough, sometimes. The energy drain isn't good for my creativity.

I keep wanting to swear off taking on more students, but I cave. I can't seem to justify turning a student away just because I "don't feel like teaching". I need to get a more selfish upper lip.

3. The Extracurriculars. Children need extracurriculars, such as sport, dance, etc. I really believe it makes them better people. Currently Their Ladyships have after school extracurriculars, and it's up to me to pay for them, provide uniforms for them and drive Ladyships there. This is pretty much every afternoon (except Friday, when I have a whole family of music students).

4. The Family. Good family maintenance requires time and attention. I'd kind of like to keep my family somewhat functional, so evenings, when I could be chilling out in the computer, all loose and comfy, I'm with the family.

Now, am I doing the right thing for letting these things be more important than writing? Family and day job having a higher priority is understandable. But the rest? I'm starting to regret having so many music students, and I already regret that housework must be done.

I should make a goal to write a thousand words this week. Preferrably good ones.

Una chiste para vos.

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 08:10:34 GMT

A young engaged couple were in a fatal car accident the day before their wedding. When they both arrive up at the Pearly Gates, they were rather despondent at their unmarried state.

Upon meeting Saint Peter, the couple inquire as to the possibility of getting married in heaven.

"Hang on," says Peter. "I'll check." And away he goes.

Time passes: hours, then days, then weeks. While the couple are waiting, they start talking about how wonderful it would be to be married. But then doubt creeps into their conversation. What if the marriage didn't work out? Would they be able to get a divorce in heaven?

After three months Saint Peter returns with an answer: "Yes, you can get married in heaven."

So the couple ask if divorce was possible.

Saint Peter gives them the evil eye. "C'mon! It took me three months to find a priest up here. How long do you think it'll take me to find a lawyer?"

The obligatory writerly ramblings

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 08:03:52 GMT

I feel like a writer today, even though I haven't cranked out any words yet. (Don't worry; I will.)

I have one story rewrite request from an editor and another short story that wants to be written. I've got two on the Orkshop, but I'll let them sit and moulder for awhile.

When one is not thinking about one's writing, one is thinking about writing. I don't mean, "Oh, I should be writing," but rather, meditating upon the craft and putting two and two together in one's head.

I find my most successful stories are the ones that reveal themselves to me backwards--IOW, I know the ending first. I'm told mystery writers work this way. I don't blame 'em. When I know the ending of a story, then I can work backwards, laying out all the events that lead up to that.

But if I work front-to-back, I end up with weak endings. Why? Dunno. Once I figure that out, I will have solved another journeyman's problem.

Meanwhile, working stuff out back-to-front seems to create the most satisfactory stories. This may be because I already know what the reader needs to know.

Back later (maybe tomorrow) with a short story. Really, I'm procrastinating housework, exercise and editing those stories that need it.

Of course it is.

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:19:54 GMT

moar funny pictures

And not just because I'm partial to The Actor. Guy really shines in the 3rd season.

Top Three List

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:22:39 GMT

Top three things I like to hear from editors:

1. "Dear Your Grace, Thanks for sending us this story. We'd like to buy it for our next issue..."

2. "We liked the story, but we had a few questions [explanation here]. If you rewrite it, we'll look at it again..."

3. "Although we won't be buying this story, we'd like to see more work from you."

Bottom three things I hate hearing from editors:

8. "Dear author, [generic rejection slip]"

9. "Dear past contributor, thank you for your interest in our magazine, however, due to [whatever reason], we're closing our doors and issue 17 will be our last..."

10. [silence]

Playing Chess

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 01:22:32 GMT

The fault of ccfinlay and sksperry:

It was the big National Chess Tournament and chess players from all over the country had gathered to the convention hotel to compete, socialise and boast.

In the lobby of the hotel a bunch of grand masters were loudly sharing some of their best checkmates, much to the annoyance of the other guests.

Finally the manager comes up to them and tells them to shut up or leave. When questioned why, he explained, "We don't allow chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

For those who care about such things, my chess rating is 1036, thanks to one Dave Van Langveld. Cheers, mate. You got me out of the squalor levels. (Not that I play much, nowadays.)

Woe is me.

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 08:18:38 GMT

Everyone sing the chorus: woe is me!

This week I have had a terrible head cold. Normally, this is a very good reason to call in a sickie and stay home in bed, doped to the eyeballs, and get better.

Not me.

I was one of the lucky ones. (And remember folks, not all luck is good luck.) I got called in to do some emergency desk shifts at work. Why? Because everyone else was sick. Unlike me, with my mere head cold, the rest of them were all off with a nasty flu virus (NOT H1N1, alas. If it was, they would have closed the library and I could have recovered in peace).

So I got to go in and spread my cold germs to the general public. Joy.

Friday I put my foot down and said I refused to come into work. And I didn't. I spent the day on the couch watching Katherine Hepburn movies and being doped to the eyeballs.

Result: head cold is now shifting to a chest cold.

On the other hand, my day at home gave me several hours of uninterrupted writing time. I was quite pleased and the resultant work made for a calmer, happier me.

Today, same recipe as day before, only throw in an internet connection to allow me some crits on the Orkshop.

Tomorrow I shall also be ill, but am still going to church. Normally, I'd give church a miss when riddled with illness, but tomorrow's gonna be too exciting to miss.

1. Combined Rockingham and Kwinana ward meeting, because...
2. The ward is gonna be redivided. Huge 200+ R'ham ward and teeny little ~50 Kwinana branch are gonna be redone for better size balance. Big question: where's the boundary gonna be drawn? My vote's going to Safety Bay Road. Y'all may not care, but this is terribly exciting to us here at home.
3. Also in that same day, the quasi-goddaughter is getting her baby blessing. Dad's side of the family consists of a maximum of ten or fewer people who will attend (including the slightly-estranged sister who I hope does come because I really like her). Mom's side of the family consists of at least eighty people who may attend. (She comes from a really big clan.)
4. Between these events, this'll be the biggest attendance of a sacrament meeting I've ever attended in Australia, and possibly the US. Cool.
5. I get to play the piano. Hope they're hymns I know.

Meanwhile, my drugs are wearing off and I simply must top up.

P.S. Nearly missed my AA anniversary. Happy Anniversary, Richard dear.

Oh. My. Gosh.

Sat, 30 May 2009 04:54:51 GMT

I just discovered that my husband is listed in the peerage:

"His Grace"

Who'da thunk?

Now, off to get myself listed...

Lightening the load

Wed, 27 May 2009 13:20:07 GMT

So for pretty much the whole week my house has been plagued by mess. This, despite all my daily efforts to whittle away at said mess.

I have long known and am now openly acknowledging that I must get rid of much of the stuff in my house.

I can't call it de-junking because to me, junk is stuff that is completely useless. I have no qualms about throwing away junk. I do it daily.

The problem with the stuff in my house is that it is useful. Pony-tail holders are useful. Pens are useful. Paper is useful. Knives are useful. Yet these are the things that daily infest my floors and demand to be cleaned up.

Why do they get on the floor in the first place and why must I be the one to clean up?

Last week I completely cleaned out my stationery drawer. I threw out things that I considered useful, but which I hadn't used in the past year. A month ago I culled half of the plates from the kitchen cabinet. (Last year I did the same for plasticware, and it looks like I may need to do the same again.)

The reason I keep stuff around is because I can see a use for it. Only problem is that I don't have a specific, determined, scheduled use for much of it.

<whine>But it's useful!!!</whine> Do you know how hard it is to throw away something that has some use? (The result of a combination of a grandmother who grew up during the Great Depression and spending some time living in poverty.) It is downright painful.

Now, I know, logically and from experience that most of the time I will never notice that the stuff is gone. (That said, I once gave away a ton of clothes. In that ton of clothes was a particular dress that looked good on me, and the pattern thereof had just come into fashion. I still mourn that dress.)

I need to gather up everything that is lying around and ask the following questions:

Do I have a specific, scheduled use for this item?
Will I use it in the next six months (twelve months, if a seasonal object)?
Do I have a specific place to which I can put it away?

If I can can answer yes to the three questions, it can stay. If not, then out it must go.

Messes will not be made if there is nothing with which to make a mess. Sometime I wish I had very little in the way of material possessions.

But I need needles. And scissors. And display books.

But do I need so much fabric, and do I need so many marbles?

I must be brave. I must lighten the load.

Will it make me happy?

EoD report

Tue, 26 May 2009 07:30:47 GMT

New words written: 500
Word count of story edited: 2600 (includes the 500 new words)
Chores accomplished: 3 (dishes washed, floor under piano swept, old vertical blinds thrown away)
Television watched: 1 episode of ~~Robin Hood~~ The Guy of Gisborne Show. (Guy is good for my health.)
Music lessons taught: 2
Chores not done: 5
Regrets: 0
Words I wish I wrote: lots more.
Drugs taken: 2 (one aspirin, one panadol laced with codeine)
Muscles hurting after yesterday's personal training session: 600
Cats fed: 1
Daughters fed: 2
Daughters fed proper, healthy food: 0

Na' bad.

Choices...

Mon, 25 May 2009 23:51:53 GMT

Today I'm only working an hour or so. This gives me a couple of free hours at home.

So, I have my choice: should I clean the house (which is a mess from Birthday Weekend) or do I sit down and do some long-overdue writing? (Really, I cannot do both.)

Which is the nobler choice, and why?

Happy Birthday to Me!

Sun, 24 May 2009 07:30:52 GMT

Come have a piece of cake with me!

Heidi's Birthday Cake

-or-
Angel Food Cake

This is much easier than it sounds. Beat some egg whites, add some flour and pour into a pan and bake until done.

First of all, make sure your utensils are completely free of oil. When dealing with egg whites, any trace of fat or oil or grease will prevent the egg whites from forming the stiff peaks required to make this cake light and fluffy. Wash everything thoroughly with detergent. As a final precaution, rub lemon juice on the inside of the mixing bowl, spatula and beaters.

So...
Preheat oven to 325F/160C degrees.

Ingredients:
1 cup corn flour (that's cornstarch for Americans)
1 ¹/₂ cups ~~confectioner's sugar (icing sugar for Americans)~~ caster sugar^[1]
10-12 egg whites^[2]
1 ¹/₄teaspoon cream of tartar
¹/₄ salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (the real stuff, preferrably)

Sift corn flour and sugar three times until light and fluffy. Set aside. This is your flour mixture.
Beat egg whites, cream of tartar and salt until stiff peaks form. Add vanilla and beat well.
Sift a quarter cup of the flour mixture into egg whites and fold in with beaters. Continue folding in flour mixture a little at a time until all flour mixture is added.
Immediately pour into a bread pan or bundt (ring pan for Australians). I've taken to lining the long sides of my bread pan with baking paper to make for easier removal. Slowly cut through cake batter with a knife to remove any large air bubbles.

Bake in oven for 45-50 minutes or until done. Cake should be golden brown on top.
When done, immediately invert cake pan onto rack or onto bottle if bundt pan and allow to cool completely.
Loosen edges then unmould.
Serve with fresh fruit and whipped cream, or chocolate sauce. This light, fluffy and completely white cake serves itself well with all manner of light toppings. Not suitable for a heavy sugar frosting. Top as you would a pavlova.

^[1]Today I had no powdered sugar, as I used it all for First Ladyship's birthday cupcakes Friday. Closest thing I had was caster sugar (which is, while still a crystal, much, much finer than the usual granulated sugar one puts on one's cornflakes in the morning). To my surprise, it worked rather well. In fact, it turned out even better than when I used powdered sugar. Maybe I'll change my recipe to reflect this. I believe a few more tests are warranted.

^[2]Either buy prepared egg whites or separate your own. To separate egg whites, always separate the egg over a small bowl then dump the white into your mixing bowl. If your yolk breaks, you've only ruined one egg.

Yolk contains fat which will spoil the stiff-peak effect of egg whites.

NEVER separate eggs over your main mixing bowl. I once learned this the hard way when I separated by twelfth egg into my mixing bowl and the yolk broke on me. I had to discard the whole lot.

First Ladyship (whose birthday is tomorrow) had her birthday party yesterday. More on this in a later post. Verdict: success