Farewell to 2009

It's even harder, in a way, to farewell 2009 than it was to farewell 2008 a year ago. Perhaps this is because 2009 ends in a 9, (which has always been one of my favorite numbers) and therefore is an odd number. I have always liked odd numbers better than even numbers. My mother says that's because I'm odd myself, which might very well be true, but whatever.

It might also be, however, because 2009 was such a very full, very exciting year. It's strange that although things happen and change, I never really feel like so very much is going on in my life, until I stop and reflect a moment like I do at the end of each year and realize, wow, I have had a full year! In January I watched "Inkheart" after a wait of many years and finished my first knitting project; in February I discovered the beauties of William Morris's writing; I turned eighteen in March; April was the Spam Jam at Waikiki, a rather unique experience; May marked my excruciating staph infection; in June I discovered the wonderful world of Bollywood; in July I managed to overcome adversity and actually compete at the Irish Dance National Championships despite my earlier illness, as well as explore beautiful Nashville; August meant the start of my sophomore year of college; in September I went museum-hopping, visiting such places as Queen Emma's Palace and the first Mission in Hawaii; October saw Father Damien be canonized, which was an amazing thing to experience in Hawaii, at the cathedral where he had been ordained; in November I participated in my first ever (but certainly not last!) NaNoWriMo and managed to pound out over 30,000 words, as well as had the opportunity to chop down a section of bamboo forest with a machete; and this December, of course, has been all family, fun, and Christmas cheer.

There's definitely been a mix of both good and bad this year, but that's how it is with all years, isn't it? What's most important is that I feel I got a lot out of it, and have grown as a student, a dancer, an author, and just a person. So yes, I will raise my glass to toast 2009, and although I feel a tinge of sadness as I always do with the ending of anything, I also welcome 2010 and all the adventures it still has in store--both for me, and for you. Happy New Year, everyone!

Christmas Holiday So Far

"Let me explain. --No, there is too much. Let me sum up."
-Inigo Montoya, The Princess Bride


My Christmas Holiday (Thus Far) 'Sum up':

1. Watching “(500) Days of Summer” on the plane and coveting a little boy’s jester cap
2. Eating my dad’s amazing pancakes for breakfast
3. Realizing my baby sister’s vocabulary is a million times more advanced than I had imagined it to be
4. Realizing I lost all my Mario Karts Wii skillz over the past semester
5. Baking chocolate chip cookies and then scoffing them
6. Typing, printing, and then decorating menus for my little brother’s play food café
7. Tossing frisbees at the park
8. Eating carrots and watching “Star Trek” with Lathspell at two in the morning
9. Staying up until four in the morning writing a chapter of my novel with my quill pen and inkwell
10. Singing Christmas carols at the family Christmas party
11. Running around outdoors blowing mist from our mouths and pretending to be dragons
12. Attending dance lessons again
13. Trimming the tree with plastic leis
14. Reading The Pioneers, All Things Bright and Beautiful, The Mark of the Horselord, and Eagle of the Ninth all at once without getting too confused
16. The promise of Rollercoasters and Rembrandt
17. Dancing a silly sibling dance to “Cat and Moon”
18. Finalizing the menu for the Second Annual Tolkien Birthday Feast
19. Taking a nap on the sofa with Elhendur
20. Looking forward to “It’s a Wonderful Life” and mochi on New Year’s Day!

Grades

I should be abed, but I just finished watching a celebratory episode of "Primeval" instead. I finally mustered the courage to look up my grades for the semester, and--glory of glories, I got all A's! Well, with one A+ and one A-, and then the rest were all A's! I was so relieved, I nearly cried. I was absolutely miserable in my Physics class and had thought I would be lucky to get a B . . . But I got an A-! Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah! This will be a very merry Christmas.

I'm suddenly eager for my next semester, to continue my learning. Thank goodness.

A Day in My Life, Dec. 17

I originally thought this would be a boring day to talk about. Finals week is winding down, and all I had planned for today was studying and work.

Luckily for you all, however, I am extremely bad at sticking to plans, especially when I'm the one who made 'em. So--here's my second installment of 'A Day in My Life'!

This morning I had to get up at six-thirty to go to the university with my grandmother. Some days this week I've had exams late in the day, and so have been able to sleep in and ride the bus to school, but today my Hawaiian Studies exam was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning. Luckily it was a take-home, group exam, and since my group and I work well together I'm pretty confident we got an A. I was out of there by eight-thirty.

Now, I would have liked to have just gone back to the apartment then, but I couldn't, because I was scheduled to work at my library job from 4-6. So instead, I had almost eight hours to kill. Planning to use that time by studying for my Physics final tomorrow, I walked to the school library and found a nice and quiet alcove to study in. Or, well, to sleep in. I was really tired.

Yeah, I ended up sleeping for a little over an hour, and had really strange dreams. I know that I dreamt that I was watching "The End of Time", and that it was entirely about people asleep in an enormous library, which shows you how exhausted my imagination was! 

Erm, once I woke up I realized this was no good, so I left the library and found a bench under an enormous tree. I don't know what type of tree it was, but it's really big and beautiful, with a bright green, feathery canopy that looks like lace with chips of blue sky peering through the openings. I studied there for a few hours, broke for lunch, and then studied some more. My steely resolve to study non-stop did crack at one point and I then spent over half-an-hour playing solitaire on my iPod (Terpsi) while listening to the soundtrack of "Devdas", but all-in-all it was a productive day. I didn't even watch any episodes of "Primeval", can you believe it? Although really it wasn't as hard to avoid as it might have been; the show lost a little bit of its grip on my heart after *spoiler* and *spoiler*. I still love it for the most part, but feel that some elements of the story could have been executed much better.

I also went back to the library to see if they had the actual novel version of "Devdas" (they do) and "The Witch in the Wood" by TH White (they do), and after finding the books and getting all excited about them I left them on the shelves despite the protests of my bookworm heart, because after all I'm heading home on Saturday and don't trust bringing library books with me on a trans-ocean flight. Something to look forward to in the Spring, I guess. I also found a book on the book sale rack that I thought might be interesting. It's called "The Enchanted Cup", I think, and is a retelling of the story of Tristam and Isolde. I didn't buy it though, because I had no money with me. And besides, I don't know if it's any good.

I did find a children's anthology of poetry that Sir Walter de la Mare put together, though! And I read it all, too--it was a nice break from studying and stress. De la Mare is one of my favorite poets, have you ever read his "The Listeners"? If you haven't, you must go read it now. I've got it memorized. Anyway, the poems he chose were fun to read, and he wrote notes to go with them explaining them to his young readers and encouraging children to really engross themselves in the poetry and giving tips on how to enjoy poetry (read each poem aloud slowly; savor each word; envision what the poet is describing and compare it to the reality, if you've seen the reality, etc.). It was really interesting. I particularly liked this line of his that I copied out in my journal right there in the library so that I would remember it:

"Whatever you admire you look at with all yourself in your eyes; and your love for it adds to its beauty."

Isn't that in itself a beautiful saying? He was explaining the merits of poetry, and I certainly agree with him on this. That's why it's possible to read so many poems about the same subject--the sea, for example, or a songbird, or rain--without getting sick of them, because each poet loves the subject in a different way, providing a different lens for the reader to look at the subject with and appreciate the subject through. Does that make sense? I hope it does.

And this quote was just thought-provoking:

"When I was seven I loved rhymes and jingles. When I was fourteen I thought I hated poetry, partly perhaps because I had been made to learn it for a punishment. When I was about fifteen I suddenly realized that when the poet Homer said that his great hero, Achilles, in his rage went out 'black as night' he meant black as night. It was like a flash of summer lightning over a lovely country of hills and forests."

I puzzled over this. What exactly does de la Mare mean, do you think? What is the discovery inherent in the line? I thought perhaps he meant that he suddenly understood the power of the words, that Homer could have said 'black as pitch' or 'black as coal' but instead chose 'black as night' for a purpose. That led me into an interesting musing on the meanings of words and word choices when describing things--do we really think about the words we choose, or do we just write 'black as night' without considering the implications and beauties of the word 'night'--all its airy coldness and sparkling dark--, and not stopping to think if we want to evoke the earthy coarseness of 'coal' or the shining thickness of 'pitch' instead? Perhaps I even got the entirely wrong impression from what de la Mare was saying! I'd love to hear what you think about it.

Anyway, musings aside, I did finally go to work, and did my job (which today was mostly sitting behind a desk and being bored and studying to fight the down-time). Today was only the second time that I've been the one to close up the place, but I enjoy shutting everything down, I've always liked cleaning things and putting things in order and putting things away. It's somewhat meditative. Tomorrow's my last day of work this semester, but I'll be back next semester, thank goodness, because the people I work with are awesome!

After that there's not much to tell. I returned to the apartment about six-thirty in the evening, studied some more, chatted with my family via video Skype (I love Skype!!), and stressed just a teeny bit. I also ate a couple squares of Cadbury Caramello, mmmmm!

Now I'm lying on the floor of my room, which is where I sleep, and am trying to: A) Not think about my exam tomorrow, and B) Not think about all the packing I'm going to have to do tomorrow! I'm such a procrastinator, alas.

It's really hot and humid right now, my ceiling fan's going, and I'm exhausted. I am also excited about finally going home for Christmas.

And . . . yeah, that's my day! I'll try to write up another post tomorrow, but probably will fail because I'm going to be BUSY! Merry Almost-Christmas to you all!

"It is the deep breath before the plunge."

Yep--my last weekend before finals week, and then after a whirlwind of exams I get to board the plane and return back home for Christmas! I'm about to do some studying--Russian and Physics, with a little Hawaiian History thrown in for good measure--but I thought that before I do I'd do a quick checking-in here at the old blog. 

I'm really, really tired, so I might crash during my study session, because I stayed up until two in the morning making my parents' Christmas gift. I won't say what it is just yet, but perhaps I'll post a photo of it later. And then for some reason I woke up at eight o'clock this morning. My internal clock has a sick sense of humor, I guess. Anyway, I have a headache and am not enjoying it.

I just finished watching "The Pianist", a film I've been meaning to watch for over a year and just never managed to . . . Anyway, I liked it. Very powerful. Very sad, but very powerful.

I might not post again until I'm back home, so if that is the case, I bid you all a farewell from Hawaii now. Have a merry Christmas and New Year's, everyone! I love Christmas, don't you?

An Update (Registration, etc.)

I finally registered for Spring '10 classes this morning, and was fast enough to get all my first picks. So I'm pretty pleased. I mean, I had wanted to take an English course which promised to study fairytales and adaptations thereof, but that was filled a couple days ago, and I could only register at 7:30 this morning, so what can you do. I'm pleased with the line-up, though. I'm taking three english classes, my fourth semester of Russian, a drawing class, and a nutrition class. 

Next week is final exams for me (although I'm taking a few early this week), and then--home sweet home! I'm super excited, and actually got all my Christmas shopping done over the most recent weekend. My feet are still sore :)

The weather's breezy, bright, and clear right now, not at all like the weather I associate with Christmas. It'll be fun to be home and wear a jacket again, as SoCal can get pretty cold in winter. Yes, I know, Linden, stop laughing. 

What else? Um . . . Oh, I'm planning for my second annual 'Tolkien's Birthday Feast', which should be a blast. The siblings have already requested 'Shrimp and Hotroot Soup', so I'm scrambling to find a recipe that I like. Also, I'm really interested in starting to make some simple animated short films, using stop-motion. I'd love to hand-draw the frames, but that'd take literally half of my life, so I'll probably not. But it'd be fun to make little films for my younger siblings.

That's all the news for now. Except has anyone else watched 'Born of Hope' yet? If you haven't, you should--it's actually really good, despite Gilraen being quite annoying! I mean, little Halbarad and Elladan and Elrohir are in it, come on! Also, little Aragorn is adorable, and Arathorn was really good, as were (to my surprise) the original characters. The black polka-dots of orc blood on Arathorn's forehead in battle did get distracting, though.

Holmes and the Holidays

http://www.storiesnow.com/

The above link might be of interest to my fellow bookworms, as it has a quite good selection of old audio plays based upon various works of literature available for free listening. The Sherlock Holmes ones are particularly fun. I don't know about you, but I enjoy old radio plays. I even have the entire BBC Lord of the Rings radio play on cd, and I love listening to them.

Being in a rather Holmesian mood, I am thinking now of that new Sherlock Holmes movie coming out on Christmas day. I do not know if I shall go to watch it, as it seems like it has a rather good Watson and a rather dreadful Holmes, so I'm not sure if it would be worth it. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?

But anyway, that in turn has me thinking of Christmas! I am eagerly looking forward to the day, and was pleasantly surprised in church this morning when I saw the Advent wreath set up and the first candle being lit. I hadn't realized we were entering Advent yet! I love Advent--Family and prayer and the decorations going up and the decorating of the tree--and the singing Christmas Carols in Latin! Here's a celebratory carol for you--one of my favorites. Merry Advent!

(P.S. Don't forget the Lord of the Rings fan film "Born of Hope" is being released online on Dec. 1. I'm looking forward to that, too!)

My Tardis . . .

Is officially one-fourth complete!

Or, well, one-fifth, counting the roof.

Actually, make that one-sixth, counting the floor.

But . . . Check it out, one panel down!

I really took this picture when it wasn't quite done--you can see the windows on the right look different from those on the left. But it's all finished now. 

I'm almost ridiculously proud of it, mostly because I'm a truly mediocre knitter at best. This is seriously the most complicated pattern I've ever attempted, which I'm sure all you seasoned knitters will smirk at, but I'm self-taught, still learning as I go, so this is quite an accomplishment for me. I'm hoping that by the time I reach the fourth panel, it'll look much better than this one! :)

Also--Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you all had a fantastic day. I spent mine mostly eating, writing, and sleeping, which means it was a stellar day. Four days off of school in a row feels like a little slice of heaven; it seems incredible that I had a whole summer without school earlier this year. Whatever did I do with it?

What books are you reading now? I haven't really had much time for reading new books this month, what with NANOWRIMO and all that (yes, I'm still frantically writing, and yes, I hope to finish on time nonetheless), but I've been reading through my copy of the complete Sherlock Holmes stories again, partially because of how many people have told me that my Quinn narrator sounds like Watson, and partially because--well, Holmes and Watson are my favorite superheroes! ^_^ I'm trying to read them all in order from cover to cover, something I haven't done in a while, and am currently still finishing up A Study in Scarlet. Yes, I told you I am mostly busy with my writing! Even my reading is suffering, horror of horrors! 

On a sidenote, I found Watson's list of 'Sherlock Holmes--his limits' even funnier on this umpteenth reading. If I were to make a similar list for myself, I suppose it would go something like:

1. Knowledge of Literature.--Extensive, but limited mostly to pre-1950's English Language and Classical, with some Russian. Well-versed in Celtic, Germanic, and Classical mythologies.

2. Knowledge of Philosophy.--Limited to Greek and Chinese, and supplemented by some poor independent musings.

3. Knowledge of Astronomy.--Feeble.

4. Knowledge of Politics.--Variable. Reasonably understanding of political theory, but treats the political reality with something bordering on disdain.

5. Knowledge of Botany.--Nil. 

6. Knowledge of Geology.--Poor.

7. Knowledge of Chemistry.--Very poor. Does know a little about medieval-era poisons.

8. Knowledge of Anatomy.--Limited. Disturbingly seems to focus mostly upon anatomy as relevant to injuries, illness, and other such trauma.

9. Knowledge of Sensational Literature.--Next to nothing.

10. Plays the piano, guitar, recorder, and tin whistle, all poorly.

11. Is an avid dancer, cook, artist, seamstress, and photographer. Takes with her everywhere a green notebook, which she scribbles in almost incessantly. 

12. Talks to herself.

Hm, I wonder if Watson could have guessed that all of this adds up to 'author' any better than he guessed that all of Holmes' attributes added up to 'detective'? Looking at it, it certainly seems a bit batty, heh. I guess we are all of us somewhat peculiar when our personalities are dissected and listed like that. It's somewhat fun, though!

A Day In My Life (Finally!), Nov. 17

(It's about time I finally got started, no?)

Okay, so I'm going to say that my day on Nov. 17 started at midnight, since I was awake for midnight, and so the day started with me frantically working on a memorial I had to finish writing for my Honors class. We're currently doing a China game, Ming dynasty, and I was one of the first people who had to present a memorial to the Wanli Emperor. Confusing, I know, but anyway. I was probably finishing off my black peach tea about this time too, which had gone cold a while ago. And perhaps listening to music. I had been listening to my Playlist earlier, but I think I might have switched it off around midnight, for fear that it'd lull me to sleep.

Thanks in part to the tea, I managed to stay up long enough to type out and print a respectable essay, but I only finished at four-thirty in the morning. I then snatched two hours of sleep before I had to get up and get to campus for my first class of the morning, Hawaiian Studies at 7:30. I got to the classroom early, but since I was feeling rather ill due to not getting enough sleep, I fell asleep at my desk and napped until class started about a half-hour later.

During Hawaiian class we watched a film about the Bayonet Constitution, and it was very interesting and rather sad, even though I knew the story already. I worked while I watched the film, editing the printed-out version of my speech for Honors, so by the time Hawaiian class finished, the speech was a lot better and quite scribbly and untidy looking.

Then a quick dash across campus--a fifteen-minute speed-walk--to get to Honors class. It was the first day of our China game, so we were still getting used to the new format of things, such as everyone bowing when the 'Emperor' enters the room, and such. I was second to give my speech, in which I had to criticize the Emperor for corruption, and it went pretty well, though my professor told me later that she thought I should have been more aggressive in my condemnation. And there I was thinking I was being too aggressive! I guess I'm just too nice, haha.

After Honors class I went to the Honors Lounge at the library, where I polished up the copy of my memorial that I had on my laptop, Gareth, before emailing it to my professor by the noon deadline. Then I was free for the rest of the day, huzzah, and after grabbing a quick lunch (a turkey wrap, in case you were wondering. Which you probably weren't.) I stood at the bus stop for a broiling fifteen minutes or so before the bus finally showed up.

On the bus, I fell asleep. Told you I was tired. When the bus had reached downtown I woke up a little to discover that there was this guy sitting next to me who hadn't been there when I fell asleep, but I didn't care enough to stay awake, so I napped again. I was awake to get off at my stop, however, and so got back to the apartment at about twelve-thirty.

Once there, things got a little boring, because I just slept for another four hours. Oh, no, wait, I listened to the first few chapters of 'The Lost World' on Librivox first, which was enjoyable. I love that book, and the guy reading did a decent job, even though he didn't have a British accent, heh. I tried to find that 1950's film adaptation online, but failed. Then I fell asleep.

When I woke up it was already dark, which was disorienting because at first I thought I had to get up and go to school and that it was next morning. Ugh.

Spaghetti for dinner, Video-Skyped my family who are on their way to Colorado right now for the Oireachtas, and did Russian homework. Then I hammered out a couple-hundred more words of 'Quinn', which means I'm in double-digit territory at last, but still am miserably far behind from where I need to be. Was a bit too tired for any serious creative work, though, which is why I only got a couple hundred words written. So I finally switched off the brain cells, spent a happy forty-five minutes or so watching 'Midnight' (I had forgotten how good that episode actually was, creeepy and clever), wrote in my journal, and then went back to sleep at about eleven at night.

All in all, it wasn't a bad day, although I always hate staying up all night. My only real regret is that due to my being exhausted I didn't go down to the shopping center to pick up 'Star Trek' on dvd! And after anxiously counting down the days all this time, too! Still, I'll get it soon.

"The Waters of Mars": My Review

Note: I'm trying to keep this post spoiler-free. Minor spoilers, such as brief talk of characters and interesting themes, will be discussed, but no significant plot devices or happenings will be given away.

 

I just finished watching "The Waters of Mars", the newest Doctor Who special and the last one before Tennant's final two-part story later this year. Now, I have to say that while I've been eagerly anticipating watching this episode ever since it was first announced last year, I did go into it a bit wary. I absolutely hated the Easter special, "Planet of the Dead". It was really boring, lacked any real substance, and even Tennant's marvelous-as-ever portrayal of the Doctor and a few cute one-liners couldn't save the fact that it was nothing but fluff. So, since "WoM" has been hyped for months now as a super-scary story and a lead in to the Christmas special "End of Time", I was desperately hoping it would be superior to the last special.

Was it? 

I answer with a great, resounding "YES!", thank goodness.

Not that it was perfect. I love a 'base under siege' story just as much as the next gal, but as far as that scare factor goes this one didn't really affect me as much as the classic ones did. The robot was, frankly, annoying (though the fact that the Doctor says as much at one point was enough to make me endure it for the entirety of the episode). And the monsters weren't at all as scary as I had hoped they would be, but that's probably due to the fact that I had watched my own fair share of promos and such in the days leading up to the actual release of the episode, and therefore the shock-factor was gone. I have learned my lesson, and as tortuous as it will be, I will refrain from watching any promotional footage of the Christmas and New Year's specials now.

I did not mind that the monsters themselves were not super scary, though, because I still finished watching the episode with my heart pounding like mad with fear. The monsters were fine, but the real scares here were psychological--the scariness of having to come to grips with difficult moral quandaries, and of suddenly having accepted rules of the character and show I've loved for so long turned briefly on their head in a sense--and the scariness of it still making sense in a horrid way. In the end, what really scared me was the nature of time itself, and most surprisingly, the Doctor himself. Which, in my opinion, is absolutely brilliant. Enormous kudos and applause to Tennant for his breathtaking acting throughout the episode, but especially towards the end.

Because it was the last five minutes that really elevated this story from a regular 'good' episode with slightly superior psychological play to a really fantastic episode. Those five minutes were flawlessly done. I was left on the edge of my seat (figuratively speaking; I watched the whole episode while sprawling on my bedroom floor, haha) and holding my breath and very nearly crying. And I don't cry often for filmed stuff, and certainly not for television. I am left waiting for "The End of Time" with bated breath and am making a mental note to stock up on the tissues, because if merely that last five minutes leading into the final story could sucker-punch me so hard, I'm going to be a bucket case come New Year's, alas. David Tennant, I'm going to hate to see you go.

To put my Tennant-praise aside for a moment, I must add that all the supporting actors did fine jobs as well, and as a second-year Russian student in particular it was rather enjoyable to have a Russian character. Also, that this is not an episode to show your kiddies if you are trying to get them to eat their vegetables. If you watch the episode, you'll see what I mean.

If you haven't already, I insist you go to Combom's Doctor Who blog (which you will find a link to in my sidebar) and follow the link he has there and go watch the episode! It's dark, thought-provoking, and definitely one of the better ones thus far. I am left with both extremely high hopes as to the quality of the Tenth Doctor's final story, and absolutely shattered, because now there's nothing between us poor viewers and the end of an era, and the sense of swift-incoming, crushing doom was beautifully built until it was almost palpable at the end of "WoM".

To sum up: Stellar acting by Tennant, good supporting acting, decent monsters, original and compelling psychological drama, and a killer last few minutes. This doesn't equal my top three favorite classic episodes of all time ("The War Games", "Caves of Androzani", and "Genesis of the Daleks"), but it's definitely among my favorite episodes of the new series. If it had been filmed in the style of the classics, with four separate installments, it would probably have been up there in quality. Sigh . . . a pox on the modern audience's lack of a proper attention span.

And a last note: "WoM" was not entirely a doom-and-gloom episode, it did produce this jewel of dialogue:

Adelaide: "State your name, rank, and intention."

Ten: "The Doctor . . . Doctor . . . Fun."

Go watch, and let me know what you think, mmkay?

Quinn: An Excerpt (II)

The beginning of Chapter One, where Julian Quinn himself finally takes over the narrative. 

Chapter One.

I am no author, but it comes to my mind that the best way in which to begin the story of a life would be to start at the beginning: that is, at the birth of the subject. Here I am afraid I must already fail you, for I cannot remember the day of my birth, nor the occasion, and have never in all my life found any one who could enlighten me on the subject. In an attempt to save the situation I shall now list the plain facts that I do know, poor as they are, in whatever order that seems to me most logical: 1, that I know I was born a child unwanted, given freely to the orphanage by a hale mother when I was not yet forty-eight hours into this world; 2, that I have never discovered the names of either my mother or my father, nor did they feel it necessary to inform me of mine; 3, that the tender years of my infancy I spent in as much misery as any child can bear, though in better health than many of my fellow orphans, for I have always had a hearty constitution, and 4, I was saved from my purgatory when I was six old, by a man named Gabriel, and brought by him into a new life. Since this is the first true birth of mine that I can recall, it is here that I shall begin my story.

NaNoWriMo 2009, Update 2

I'm working hard as I can on my WriMo novel, but man, school is keeping me so busy! Still, I'm at about 7000 words now, which means I'm slowly inching my way up to where I'm supposed to be. Yesterday, being Veterans Day and therefore a holiday from school, helped somewhat, but unfortunately I also had two tests today I needed to spend the time on studying for . . . And tomorrow is my Russian test for the week. I'm spending this evening solely on my novel, though. Quinn is an impatient chap.

Also, I'm waiting for the rain to start. An enormous storm is ready to break any moment here in the state of HI, and I've had my window open, watching the clouds gathering and darkening, all afternoon. The sky is a thick blue-grey like steel and lead right now, but tinging with pink lines too, so I suppose that means that somewhere behind all the clouds the sun is setting. The air smells really good; rain in Hawaii smells just as good as rain in Oxford did, but in different ways. It's sweeter, but not as earthy.

And I'm going to post a double-feature book review post after November is over, since I'm spending all my free writing time writing a book of my own, and since I'm not getting much reading done this month. A little, but not much. Biggest news on the distraction front: "Waters of Mars" is coming out on the weekend, which means that I have to take into consideration the fact that I'll probably be spending two hours not writing--one hour to watch the thing, and one hour to recover. Don't worry, I'll try to be somewhat productive while watching; I'll work on knitting the second panel of my TARDIS plushie. Yep, that's called geek-productive, and it's fun.

Okay, time to get back to real work! I wish I had a typewriter.

Quinn: An Excerpt (I)

Well, here's all I got for you fine folks thus far. I know it's pathetic, but I hope to catch up this week, now that midterms are finally over. And I actually have more than this written--my total word count is 5,209 at present, while what I am posting here is only 2,442 words. But it is the best place to insert a break for posting purposes, I think. I'll post more tomorrow (hopefully), and the plan is to actually have the chapter finished by then, too. We'll see!

Comments and critiques are eagerly welcome, but keep in mind that this is of course a first draft Nanowrimo novel, and that any ideas on improvement will be kept in storage until after November is over. Also, although I have a general idea of what will happen in the story, most of it is in fact a mystery to me, so I'm kinda making it up as I go along. Like I wasn't expecting this narrator to come along and demand the writing of the first chapter, but demand it he did, and I'm letting him do what he likes. Quinn will just have to wait for his turn to take over the narrative, it seems :)

Also, I will NOT be posting the story in its entirety on this blog. Bits and snippets, yes, but not the whole thing, due to my being unwilling to publish any serious writing in full on a website where anyone can read it and, theoretically, steal it. Yes, I know I am paranoid, but I have reason from past experience to be! If you still want to read the story word for word, shoot me an email at cpsk@hawaii.edu, let me know who you are, and I'll send you an invite to the private writers' blog that I've set up, "The Radish Room". I will be posting the entirety of Quinn on that blog, since it's secure.

Quinn: Prologue

It had been many years since I had last seen Mr. Julian Quinn, and as is the nature of such flighty things, my memories of him, once so cherished, had long since been forgotten--still there in my mind, surely, firm and unassuming as stones in a riverbed, but softened, worn faded and shapeless, as all things eventually are, by time. Looking down through the flowing waters of fifty years that ran between us, I found them grown smooth also, slipping from my fingers like minnows. Such reminders of age do not rest easily upon me: the sensation of the dull cotton of my brain gathering dust and moonbeams and my bones gathering the cold. So it is that even now that I approach the age at last when a man's best source of entertainment is plumbing for those river stones to examine them anew in the sunset of his days, I have always avoided those sunken memories of the man with an instinct something akin to that of a wary beast still tendering old hurts. And, considering the half-century of silence that I had not been alone in building between us, I suppose he felt something of the same regarding memories of me.

How foolish men are, and old men most of all! When we were boys together, I might have laughed at it--nay, I surely would have made merry over the notion. Now, however, I can see the tragedy of the thing.

It was morning when the letter came, tucked quietly into the packet of the daily post and papers that my youngest granddaughter brought to me in my study. I did not immediately take notice of her arrival, for I was absorbed in my latest writing--a good story, I thought it then, certainly my best since Phoebus. Unlike my old myth fancies and poetic prattlings, however, this was a story set here in my own England, in that place and time when I had been young. Even muses, it would seem, grow tired and begin to yearn for their beginnings again. 

Mary greeted me merrily that morning, I remember, lingering a brief spell to keep me company and to clear away the breakfast things that still cluttered my desk; the cold tea dregs and the plate, the knife and the napkin. She had dressed already for work, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, her hair clipped short and curled in the fashion that most pleases women these days, the hem of her grey smock of a dress frisking about her calves. Such a poor thing for women to wear, to my mind, though little Mary is quite proud of it, and indeed that morning her dress’s many black buttons shone like eyes. She had plainly polished them the night before. Those buttons are all the fripperies she and the other women of her age are allowed in these dark days, though they wear them almost as proudly as they flaunt the slimness of their ankles from beneath their dress hems. But still there are times when in my dozing hours I catch like butterflies the memories of silk and lace and taffeta and ribbons, skirts wide and rustling, hair braided and bound and bedecked with flowers, and I think I see my Mary as she should be, as girls her age were in the days of my youth, and then I cannot but pity her. Some thought of this kind was in my mind as I set aside my pen to greet her, and we spoke some little time together. I recall that she spoke something of the cold, as winter drew close, and I teased her gently as was my wont as regarding her ankles, which would have been so scandalous in my own time. She only replied as she did to most things: with a smile that dimpled so deeply, it could have held rainwater. It was a smile like the one I had once smiled as a boy, which may, I suppose, also account for the fondness I have for the child.

And all those careless, precious moments, the letter waited for me, so close I could have touched it without fully extending my arm, and yet I knew nothing of it. It waited silently and patiently, and I felt no such chill or premonition such as I have read of in the old novels; no half-remembered voice whispered to me from within the yellow paper; no unconscious compulsion preyed upon my mind, urging me to open it, to read the words. My life, at least, has never been like a novel, no matter how many I have written.

It was only once Mary had gone that I turned my attention at last to the few letters she had left. She had flung open the shutters at the window to make way for the sunlight, so that the mahogany of my desk that had been so black moments before now bore whorls of red and gold in its glossy heart, and a brilliant white fire was kindled in the reflective sides of my tobacco tin, though the letters remained as they had been, pale and unremarkable. I slit them open methodically but swiftly, impatient to return to my writing, not caring even to glance at the names scribed upon the envelopes themselves, but instead scanning each envelope’s contents swiftly and coming to my own conclusions before I reached each signature.

The third envelope was of excellent quality, doubly impressive in light of the paper shortages, as it seemed to my author’s fingers nearly as thick and sturdy as parchment, and creamy and pleasantly textured. I suppose I fancied it some sort of note from the government, or perhaps from the publishing firm; I do not remember now. I do recall clearly that I slit it open easily enough, withdrew from its chrysalis a single sheet of paper, and tossed the envelope aside to join the other papers in the clutter on my desk. The paper it had borne, in sharp contrast to its elegant wrapping, was a casualty of the war effort, of cheap make and no longer than the span of my hand, and no wider that I could reach from forefinger to thumb. In the corner of the sheet was written the date: 17 October, 1915. Underneath it was an address, a London address, of all places. And there at the top of the page, in the cramped handwriting that had once been as familiar to me as my own breathing, the cramped, precise hand that had so aggravated our schoolmaster when we were boys: My dear John . . .

I have said some memories wear smooth as river stones. Yet there are some, when snatched from the water, which are found to be exactly as they were a thousand years ago--it was only the moss, the distortion of the stream current, the trick of the light glancing from the surface, that made you see them as they never truly were, that made you forget. 

My God! How his face was instantly there before me, and not merely his face, but him, the man in his entirety, just as he had been in our glory days as students and young men first stepping out into the world, sharper than I had thought any memory could be, complete from the dark gloss of his carefully curled hair to the scar from a pox in childhood still evident upon his chin to the defensive way he hid his hands deep within his grey trouser pockets. I know not what expression was upon my face then, nor can I recollect leaping to my feet and calling for coat and cab--though my daughter and her family later assured me that I did--so suddenly and completely was my conscious mind overwhelmed and astounded.

Still, it was not many minutes later, I am sure, that I emerged from a state which was probably the closest I have ever come to fainting in all my life to discover myself seated in an electric carriage, rattling over the twisting, sordid byways of old London town, with the cyclists and horse-drawn cabs and heavily bundled pedestrians flashing past. I had no collar at my throat nor hat upon my head; my coat was in a bad state of disarray; and I still clutched the wondrous paper tightly within my fist. I discovered, when I shifted my position and attempted to straighten out my rumpled coat, that my walking stick had been set carefully against my leg. Later I was to discover that I had insisted upon going out alone, saying only that I needed to meet a friend, and that I would not listen to the confused protests of my daughter and her family. They had at last given way to my will, but my daughter had made sure to set the stick in the cab after me, along with a goodly amount of money in my left pocket. I did not much regard it at the time, being so caught up in a sudden boyish spirit of adventure and intent only upon urging the driver to drive faster to the address which I could show him upon the note I held, and to take the shortest way. And always before my eyes like a ghost the face and form of the young Julian Quinn of my boyhood days. It seems absurd to me now that I never once gave a thought to the rather obvious fact that Quinn would have now become an old man even as I have. In my fancy I saw him as he had looked in his student days, when he was as dear to me as though he had been one of my own brothers; I saw him working by candlelight, carefully writing out his letter summoning me back to a happier past, those bitter differences that had broken our friendship in anger showing all forgiven upon his expressive brow, and his ugly hand firmly signing the letter, Julian Quinn.

Once the long-suffering little man at the wheel had managed to convince me that he could urge the vehicle no swifter than he had already urged it, and that he was certain of the address and we should get there in the speediest possible time, I turned my attention at last to Quinn’s note, and read once and then again the actual body of the words he had written to me, as I had not managed to get past the opening salutation previously. It is strange that I should have recognized his hand so easily and immediately in the characters of my name, written firmly on the penny paper with a pen that was obviously old, by the way the ink sputtered and bled and then ran dry upon the page. The poor ink-flow rendered his handwriting, which had always been notorious among acquaintances for its illegibleness, nigh impossible to puzzle out, and not all of that was due entirely to the pen. Age was evident in his lettering just as I had noticed it becoming evident in mine. Still, it had been enough, and as I puzzled eagerly through his words now in their entirety I became aware suddenly for the first time of their import and meaning. I set out here for the reader’s benefit the letter in full, copied directly from the original by my own hand.

My dear John, it began; My dear John, pray do not be alarmed that I should choose to write to you now after so many countless years of silence. I had no other recourse left to me, now that Diana has died. These past four months have been a misery and a torment to me, and I have no one at all left to me in all this wide world save you alone, an unhappy truth that I hope you will forgive me for burdening you with. It is this loneliness, this strange emptiness of the mind, that weighs most heavily upon me all these dreary days, and the screaming of the sirens and the smoke rising from grand old Europa do nothing to give me peace. I wish I could speak to you again in person, John. It would be such a comfort to me. Yet in my heart I believe--nay, I know--that this is after all the best method of conveying my farewells to you, for ever were you too stubborn for your own good. You would not understand if I were to appear upon your doorstep only to bid you farewell, and I am afraid that perhaps my own courage could not withstand the ordeal. It is easier to explain myself thus, with pen and ink and paper, not having to see your expression as I confess myself.

John, when you read these words, I shall be dead. 

Do not mourn for me, my dear fellow; I have been far too poor a friend to you for any tears. If, however, you cherish at all any part of our friendship that once was, I entreat you to take the key I shall enclose with this note and go swift as you can to the address indicated upon the back of this sheet. The door you shall find awaiting you there will open to the key. Upon the table you will see to your left, you will find a manuscript. This too is waiting for you, John. It is all I have to bequeath, and there is no other man left living in this world to whom I can bequeath it, nor indeed to whom I would wish to bequeath it. Do with it as you will--burn it, print it, bury it, but only first swear to me that you shall read it. It is a hard thing to die alone, and it will be a comfort to me to know that there will be a man left living after me who will know the truth of my life, and perhaps find some gladness in it. This is perhaps only the flattering of an old man’s vanity, but I shall sleep the easier for it.

I remain, sir, your servant,

Julian Quinn

PS-. If I might make so bold as to make one last request of you, John--Diana lies buried in the _______ cemetery, beneath the ash sapling on the west side, and beside her lies my father in his grave. If you would visit every so often to think of them, and pray for me, I should be ever grateful. J.Q.

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November

As I promised those of you who know me not only on blogger but also on facebook, in honor of Guy Fawkes Day I've decided to post here the essay I wrote about him last semester for history class. I had to give a big presentation as well as write the speech, and the paper was an accompaniment to the presentation, so I do not go into as much detail as I could have regarding the intricacies of the plot, the fate of the conspirators, subsequent history, etc. Instead, I focused on one theme, namely, how the story has ben remembered over the centuries. I believe the paper and presentation got an A; I don't much remember the writing of it, as I was too busy panicking and running out of time, hehe. As I do not have the smarts or the memory to recreate my powerpoint presentation below, I have instead taken a lot of the material I used in my presentation, such as weblinks and photographs, and am presenting them again with many of the same points made, but I think with a slightly snarkier attitude. I haven't had much sleep recently, and my inner sarcasm-beast is a bit more alert than usual.

All of the below is copyright to me. Except the poem, which is of course a folk song. 

Guy Fawkes: How the Gunpowder Plot is Remembered

‘Remember, remember, the Fifth of November,

Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.

I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent

To blow up King and Parli’ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England’s overthrow;

By God’s providence he was catch’d

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!’

The British nursery rhyme generally known by the repetitive, sing-song title of ‘Remember, Remember’ has no certain date of origin, although there is evidence that it has existed as a popular song since at least 1850, when The Times reported on people chanting ‘Remember, remember, the 5th of November,/ The Gunpowder Treason and Plot’ in the streets of  London (1). Likewise, the author of the poem is unknown, but his purpose in composing ‘Remember, Remember’ is clear: the verse is a reminder of the discovery and thwarting of the Gunpowder Plot, a seventeenth century terrorist plot which, if left undiscovered, would have destroyed Britain’s government. The Plot is curiously little-remembered outside of England, but in England the event is still extremely important, as evidenced by a macabre national holiday known as Guy Fawkes Day, the festivities which take place then, and of course the aforementioned children’s poem. What is ironic, however, is that the Gunpowder Plot and Guy Fawkes himself are remembered erroneously in modern Britain. This scrap of simple rhyme which is taught to first year students throughout the country represents a purposefully faulty national memory which calls into question the very nature of remembering, and thereby the nature of history itself.

The roots of what would become the Gunpowder Plot first sprouted in 1603, from the mind of a young British nobleman named not Guy Fawkes, but Robert Catesby. Catesby was a Catholic, as were all the men who were eventually to join him in conspiracy, Fawkes being one of these. The sixteenth century was a time of religious turmoil and strife in Britain, first with the persecution of Protestants during the reign of Mary Tudor, then followed by the reciprocal persecution of Catholics during the reign of Mary’s Protestant sister Elizabeth. Catesby, along with many other Catholics, suffered under the rule of Elizabeth and, in turn, that of her successor, the Scottish King James VI. By the turn of the century and the coronation of the new Protestant king, the radical and hotheaded Catesby decided that he must turn to terrorism and assassination in order to gain a new and free future for his religious faith. The complex and fraught religious backdrop to the plot used to be recognized in ‘Remember, Remember’ with additional (Protestant) lines mocking the Pope and the Catholic religion, but these have been removed over the years as religious tolerance became more prevalent in British society. This is unquestionably a good change, but it has also had a curious effect: children grow up in Britain knowing that Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament on November 5, 1605, but they are ignorant as to his motives and to the religious strife which was so crucial to the whole event. The poem clearly declares Fawkes’ ‘intent’ to destroy the King and Parliament, but carefully avoids discussing what fueled that intent, in what seems a ‘cover-up’ of ugly but important historical fact.

Catesby’s initial plan was to dig a tunnel which would lead under the Houses of Parliament. From there he would set off a massive amount of gunpowder, wiping out not only the King but also his wife, his sons, and his Parliament. King James’ young daughter Elizabeth would then be set on the throne as a puppet-ruler, trained and controlled by Catholics, to return government power back to the Catholic faith. Catesby was evidently eloquent and likeable; he is described as possessing ‘the knowledge of character, the tact, eloquence and shrewdness combined with will, daring and force, that enabled him to rule unchallenged the men of tempestuous character he gathered around him’ (2). He therefore quickly won other frustrated young Catholics to his cause, most notably two men named Thomas Percy and Thomas Winter. Of the thirteen known conspirators, these three were the most influential and important, for they were the masterminds of the Plot. Guy Fawkes was the fourth man recruited, but his job was not to plan, being instead to carry out orders given to him by superiors such as Catesby. When the tunnel idea failed due to the unexpected difficulty of the labor involved, the conspirators decided to work from a house near to Parliament instead. Guy Fawkes was stationed at this house in the guise of a servant, as a guard to watch over the gunpowder, and with the additional responsibility of being the man to set off the powder on November the fifth. Thus his journey to infamy began.

Considering his somewhat lowly role in the development of the Gunpowder Plot, as more of a loyal follower than a leader, it is peculiar that Guy Fawkes is the character most popularly connected with the Plot. That this is so is evidenced by the national holiday bearing his name and the fact that his is the only name mentioned in the ‘Remember, Remember’ nursery rhyme. Every British schoolchild could tell you that Guy Fawkes was the man who tried to blow up Parliament, but practically no one knows the name of Catesby or Winter, the men who persuaded Fawkes to blow up Parliament. The character of Guy Fawkes has transformed over the years into that of a tragic hero or romantic villain, who is apprehended by the King’s men mere moments before he sets fire to the gunpowder, with a ‘burning match’ already in his fingers. This is not the true account of what happened: the truth is that Guy Fawkes was seen in the cellar but not arrested, and that it was only later that night when he emerged from the cellar suspiciously dressed for travel that he was captured. His clothes, and not the match of the rhyme, gave him away. There was no lighted match involved, and no gunpowder close enough to Fawkes to be dangerous at the time of his arrest. The image of Fawkes surprised in the cellar, however, remains one of the most powerful images of the Gunpowder Plot, no matter if it is fabricated, and is yet another popular misconception promoted by the nursery rhyme.

‘Remember, Remember’ is commonly taught today as a children’s rhyme, a piece of propaganda disguised as entertainment instead of a history lesson. When I attended school in Oxford, my first grade teacher taught the classroom the poem for Guy Fawkes Day, and gave us a brief overview of the story of Guy Fawkes: how he was caught just as he was about to blow up Parliament, how he was tortured, and how he was executed. I was six years old when I learned what it meant to be ‘hung, drawn, and quartered’. It was not until many years later, however, that I bothered to learn the truth about the life of the man Guy Fawkes. In the England of today he has become more of an abstract symbol in man’s shape than a historical figure: a lesson warning of the dangers of treason and at the same time an excuse for a party. The sadistic and disturbing custom of burning Fawkes in effigy every November fifth still continues in England, and it is presented as a game to the children, who--and I speak from personal experience--heartily enjoy watching the poor ‘guy’ get consumed by the flames of the bonfire, and chant the rhyme condemning Fawkes without really thinking about what they are saying or doing. On one level, the poem and the festivities it is associated with are celebrations of the British spirit and the ‘providence’ which saved Parliament from being blown up, which explains the fireworks and the teaching the children the triumphant poem; on another it is an attempt at preserving a memory of history and a warning against treason but only a history distorted from the truth; and on another it is a disturbing celebration of the brutal death of one man, a man who has become less of a historical figure and more of a fictional character as the generations pass.

So what does it mean to ‘remember’? In the case of Guy Fawkes, it is to remember only that which your culture wants you to remember. What is important to the rhyme’s British audience is not one-hundred percent historical validity, but instead the message of British pride and confidence the poem can impart to its audience, especially its target audience of children. It is used to teach British children to enjoy watching the image of a man burn for treason. The implications are disturbing, but also profound: Guy Fawkes is chosen to be the scapegoat whose image is burned and whose name is singled out for infamy not because he was more important than his fellow conspirators, many of whom were more to blame for the Plot than he was, but because as the man with the match and the gunpowder he is the conspirator most easily simplified into something easily hated. By focusing solely on Guy Fawkes’ image and intent instead of his motives and his companions, the rhyme can dehumanize the conspiracy and avoid the messy religious context to turn the story into a story to inspire patriotic zeal against the plotters which children’s hearts can understand. By telling the story in a sing-song poem, the historical events are effectively moved from the realm of hard historical fact into that of a story with a lesson. And so the British continue their ‘remembering’, passing the rhythmic poem and its message down from generation to new generation and turning death and torture into a parable and a celebration.

And now with the help of some photographs and articles and the like that I used in slides during my presentation on Fawkes, here's a photographic look at how Fawkes has been remembered throughout the ages, from 1606 to the present day.

For a contemporary view on the matter, I found a .pdf version of the newspaper which was printed the day after Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were executed. The front page article was, naturally, a very detailed account of the whole affair, which was the sensation of its time. Here's what the writer of the article--no doubt speaking for the general opinion of the population--had to say about Fawkes: 

"Last of all came the great Devil of all, Guy Fawkes, alias Johnson, who should have put fire to the powder. His body being weak with the torture and sickness he was scarce able to go up the ladder, yet, with much ado, by the help of the hangman, went high enough to break his neck by the fall. He made no speech, but with his crosses and idle ceremonies made his end upon the gallows and the block to the great joy of all beholders that the land was ended of so wicked a villainy."

Fawkes-hatred is quite palpable in these few lines; and there is certainly nothing of the playful festival that is celebrated today in them.

Fig. 1. That hatred is still apparent in this woodcutting from the seventeen hundreds, but there is also the beginnings of its transformation into a sort of game, showing children triumphantly marching an unflattering effigy of Fawkes about London to celebrate and commemorate his capture and the thwarting of the Plot he was a part of. At this time effigies of the Pope would also commonly be paraded about with Guy, evidence that the memory of religious strife playing a huge part in the Plot was still very much alive.

Fig. 2. Fawkes in the cellar, in his traditional pose of pouring gunpowder while holding a candle aloft, although he never had the time to do anything of the sort. This image is significant, however, because it was an illustration in a book written in the mid-eighteen hundreds which romanticized the story of the Gunpowder Plot and portrayed Fawkes as a sympathetic character, one of the first depictions to do so. The book (which I have read and personally didn't think much of) was immensely popular when it was first published, evidence that the public opinion against Fawkes was no longer quite so vitriolic. I doubt the newspaper reporter of the day of the execution would have found any heroizing of 'the great Devil of all' appealing.

What about today? The effigies known as Guys are still made, only now more emphasis is put upon burning them than parading them up and down streets, and the Pope is generally no longer included in the burning and mocking. Guy Fawkes Day, or Bonfire Day, as it is sometimes called now, is celebrated with fireworks as well as the bonfire, carnivals and parties. It has also been absorbed by our consumerist culture. We have such fabulous items marketing the event as a Guy Fawkes Day Winnie the Pooh dressed up in 16oo's garb and eagerly waving a torch (don't believe me? Click here), a cute barrel-shaped firework designed for the celebrations of the day sporting a cheerful and very colorful Fawkes himself waving a sparkler around (again, click here for the evidence!). If I were the man, I would not be so eager to torch myself, and would not necessarily agree that the day of my death should be celebrated with huge festivals, but whatever.

The best example of how Guy Fawkes is remembered today, however, is evidenced by a page that I found on the Disneyland Paris--yes, DISNEYLAND--website inviting families to bring their kiddies to the magic kingdom for a Guy Fawkes celebration Disney style! Best lines? 

"A classic British tradition is ignited with spectacular Disney magic. Musical fountains glisten and jaw-dropping fireworks explode over Lake Disney's giant floating bonfire, all set to an elegant and majestic soundtrack including Disney's Fantasia!"

Just look at that, and then look back at the story of Guy Fawkes. Yeah . . . so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin. I wonder if Pooh bear will be the one given the honor of setting the Guy ablaze?

What I find interesting is a little disclaimer the friendly folks of Disney thought to put on the webpage, which notes that although traditionally the bonfire burning and fireworks exploding and all commemorates the gruesome deaths of Fawkes and his fellow conspirators, 'In modern times . . . the event has had no political significance'. Do you think that's true? And if it is true, do you think it's right? I for one believe you shouldn't exactly celebrate Guy Fawkes Day without realizing exactly what it is that you are commemorating. It's not a pretty story, and any attempts to take Guy Fawkes out of the Day does not, in my opinion, change the meaning of the celebration. Kudos to Disney for trying, though; they just made the whole thing a lot creepier.

And I have to admit that I never before thought that I'd see the words 'hung, drawn, and quartered' on a Disney website. Cheers, Mickey, that made my November.

NaNoWriMo 2009, Update

Current word count: 2,637.

Yeah, not quite up to where I need it to be, but I've had a lot of homework this week, what with two midterms on Thursday and Friday. So I'm frankly quite pleased with where I am, and will continue writing throughout the week, catching up on however many words I need to catch up on over the weekend.

Here's the first paragraph for any of you who are interested:

"It had been many years since I had last seen Mr. Julian Quinn, and as is the nature of such flighty things, my memories of him, once so cherished, had long since been forgotten--still there in my mind, surely, firm and unassuming as stones in a riverbed, but softened, worn faded and shapeless, as all things eventually are, by time. Looking down through the flowing waters of fifty years that ran between us, I found them grown smooth also, slipping from my fingers like minnows. Such reminders of age do not rest easily upon me: the sensation of the dull cotton of my brain gathering dust and moonbeams and my bones gathering the cold. So it is that even now that I approach the age at last when a man's best source of entertainment is plumbing for those river stones to examine them anew in the sunset of his days, I have always avoided those sunken memories of the man with an instinct something akin to that of a wary beast still tendering old hurts. And, considering the half-century of silence that I had not been alone in building between us, I suppose he felt something of the same regarding memories of me . . ."

It's tough to resist the urge to edit and rewrite, but I'm forcing myself to forge ahead without doing either, because I'm determined to get this novel done on time. So far, so good. I may wince, I may feel I could have written [insert passage here] better, but so be it. I'll wait until November's over, and then my editing demons can come out again to frolic all they like.

How are all your novels going?

The New Widget. . .

Comes courtesy of Combom's fabulous Doctor Who blog, which is a veritable treasure chest for any Who fans. The episode finally has a release-date! I'm looking forward to it, as I always welcome more Doctor Who, especially Tenth Doctor, but I'm also dreading it, because it's the beginning of the end. Tennant's Doctor dies on New Years--what a way to start a New Year, huh? But "Waters of Mars" looks like it'll be a lot of fun, so yeah, it kind of does merit a countdown.

Not Ice Warriors, but still looks great! Definitely gonna miss you, Ten.