Anyone own a treadmill?

I was considering getting one for Steve for Christmas, and I don't really know what to look for. Anyone?

A request

I'm looking for sonnets or other IP poems, preferably rhymed, for potential inclusion in an audio/podcast experiment. I'd also prefer if they were previously published just so there's no possibility I might be interfering with your ability to get them published later.

Edited to clarify: I have no objection at all to an unpublished poem. But my machinations could potentially hurt your chances to get it published later. If you don't care, I don't care.

It's official

Well, NaNoWriMo isn't actually over until tomorrow, but I think I can say that I'm not going to get 25000 words overnight.

I hit a wall. I lost my focus. I put my characters in a position and couldn't seem to get them back out of it.

It's disappointing, because I thought it might be worth reading. Maybe someday.

NaNo A-Go-Go 2-Oh

Icon switch. I didn't like that one.



View my progress report.


Send me an email if you'd like to read what I have so far.



Edited: As you can see, my progress has completely stalled. I am a slacker. This was so easy two years ago, but since then has been a real struggle.

For those with iron stomachs only

I think everyone should read this article, and the comments that follow. But I will tell you in advance that only those with an iron stomach and a tolerance for hatred, bigotry, and the highest pile of stupidity I have ever seen should attempt the feat.

This isn't a double dog dare. This is a warning.

Still, read it if you can.

Now hiring

It's no fun doing any hiring, especially when you get a ton of qualified applicants. We did interviews with six people for a position, and every single one of them is completely qualified. You end up picking people based on things like "When I called and asked to speak to her, she said, 'This is she.'"

These candidates are so qualified, and eager to get this not-so-great job where they have to put up with me. Life sucks.

The poetry puzzle

Usually when I write a poem, I get fairly neutral reactions. Rarely, I'll get all raves or all pans. My most recent poem is interesting for the third type of reaction--mixed. Strong like versus strong dislike. I'm glad to see strong feelings of one sort or another, honestly. I'd rather people hated it than thought, "Meh."

It's often the works that I like the most that get the most mixed reactions. That makes me wonder what I'm keying off of that is turning people off. Not all people. obviously, but some.

I'm such a rabble rouser. I think I'll go drink some milk.

Calling all tin ears

Yes, I'm supposed to be writing. Instead, I took this test of my musical memory.

I scored an 83.3. Even when I went back and listened to the ones I missed, I think I'm right and test-writing dude is oh-so-wrong.

It's up to you, New York New York!

I'm supposed to be picking my niece up at the airport but her flight hasn't left LaGuardia yet. 45 minutes late. Let my people gooooooooo!

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I went to the post office to pick up the Amazon books I had ordered. I got there at 5:10. They put a slip in my mailbox instead of giving me one of the keys to the jumbo mailboxes. They closed at 4:30 and won't be open again until Friday.

I went to the library to pick up the seven (7)! books I had on hold. I got there at 5:15. They closed at 5 and won't be open again until Monday.

Oh, this is bad, people. This is gnawing on electrical cords bad.

Ode to a panic button

When I went outside to the car this morning, I managed to push the panic button with my ass. There were roofers working on the neighbor's house, and they all stood up and stared at me while I scrambled to try to turn it off. I clicked all the buttons on the key fob. I turned the car on. I moved it a couple of feet. I debated driving down the highway like a person in a parade, with my headlights flashing and my car honking.

I went inside to ask Steve to help me disconnect the battery and then it stopped.

I crept back out to the car, but it didn't matter. The roofers still stared.

I gave them a very QEII sort of wave, adjusted my nonexistent tiara, and drove away.

Computers galore

We have an ad in the paper this week for a new receptionist/clerical worker, with computer experience a must. I'm no computer genius, by any stretch, but it amazes me how many people my age or younger don't seem to have any experience with the damned things at all.

We're pretty dependent on computers at work. Not completely, but pretty.

I had to drive Steve to the doctor because he was falling down dizzy. We got a prescription for some anti-dizziness medication, but the pharmacy couldn't fill it. Why? Their computers were down.

Damned machines. Damned machines!

I'm fond of them, though. They whir. I have a great love of things that whir. I especially love the word whir. Whirring. I need to read a poem about whirring. I have a poem in which things churr, but I don't believe I have one in which they whir, and damn it would be really obsessive if I go now and run a search to find out, wouldn't it?

Rebecca Loudon rules

We are not worthy. She's been nominated for a Pulitzer for Radish King. Hot damn.

I wonder who wrote that one?

So, Hugh McMillan, plagiarist, has landed a poem in an anthology. Enquiring minds want to know who really wrote it.

Where did my NaNo go?

Wow, I'm struggling. I know where I want the story to go, but I'm having a heck of a time getting my plot to go thattaway.

I'm also lazy and shellshocked, so that doesn't help.

Well, someone else thinks I'm an asshole

Philip Larkin! You scored 33 Demeanour, 54 Debauchery, 58 Traditionalism, and 70 Expression!

Cheer up, asshole. Everyone loves you, and still you treat them like shit. And still they love you! They love you all the more for it! Why is that, do you suppose? Because you're a freakin genius, that's why! You make an insult sound like love song! You spew your venom at the world and the world laps it up! From your dark, ugly little heart gushes forth a veritable geyser of gorgeous ideas and melodious language. I hate you. Let's hang out sometime. Your masterpiece is "The Less Deceived".

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on Demeanour You scored higher than 99% on Debauchery You scored higher than 99% on Traditionalism You scored higher than 99% on Expression

Link: The Which Famous Poet Are You Test written by Torontop on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

I shouldn't be surprised

In thinking about yesterday's post, I realize again that I shouldn't be surprised or disheartened by my isolation.

I don't come from artists. My family isn't about art. My family is about money.

I am the poor one, the one who has to worry about money. Oh, the rest of them worry about money, but always in a "How can I get even more of it?" way, not a "How can I pay this doctor bill?" way.

They are the people wondering if the house should be sold for just under 2 million or just over. I am the one wondering if the roofer will do half of the roof now, and half later.

And I would be one of them if I could.

Cool site for fans of The Westing Game

Fans of Ellen Raskin's great mystery can find her working notes here. It's neato.

That smothering feeling

You have to spend money to make money. Who hasn't heard that? But you have to spend words, spend poetry, to make them, too.

Most of the time, I can withdraw into my little poetic shell and it doesn't matter that the world around me, this very small little slice of world, is so barren of words. The truth is, I simply don't have people to talk to. I don't have the opportunity to go to readings, to hear poems, to talk poetry, unless it's online. Unless it's something that I have to work so damned hard at that it's hard to convince myself it's worth it.

The internet isn't about back and forth. It's about hit and miss. And lately, my god, it's all been miss.

The upshot of the whining is that I'm lonely. I'm tired of having to try so hard to have conversations about things that matter to me. Perhaps I'd be happier if I stopped wanting those conversations at all.

The Medicare nightmare continues

To be honest, Medicare has been okay, but we got notice a couple of weeks ago that Steve's Part D drug coverage was going to change so much that it would become obsolete. So, we get to start from scratch.

Whoever designed the "doughnut hole" in the coverage should be horsewhipped.

Hunker in the bunker!

There will be an explosion of monumental proportions any minute now at work. I am battening down the hatches, at least metaphorically, since I don't actually know how to do that.

The bad thing is if this explosion follows the track I expect, I'll be a lot busier at work. The good thing is it might rid me of a thorn in my side. My grumpy self and my lazy self are currently thumb-wrestling over my happiness level. I would expect my grumpy self to win since my lazy self is, well, lazy.

New Countdown up at MiPOradio

You know you're wanting your poetry podcast fix! Go here and perk up your ears.

Diddly dang

I've been carting my NaNo around on one of those usb drive thingies on a lanyard around my neck.

Today? I forgot it at home.

O pain. O torment.

I might actually have to, you know, work at work now. Bastards!

The first chunk of the NaNo

If anyone wants to read my NaNo as it stands, I have put it up on my Writely account. To read it, I will have to invite you, so I'll need your email address. You can either email me (jsgoddess@gmail.com) or post a comment here.

Or, if you're a member of TUF, you can see the whole shebang there.



Edited: Change of plans. The Writely thing was too hard, so I put it up on a Wordpress blog (Scavella gave me the idea). I did password protect, though, so just send me an email (jsgoddess@gmail.com) to ask for yon password and ye shall receive.

Over 20000 words

I've done well catching up on my goal, but I'm finding myself unable to read, write, or think about poetry. Like usual, I'm reading three or four novels, but poems? I think I could read an entire novel expending less brainpower than a single poem would cost me right now. Gosh.

Finally used my Amazon gift certificate

It's amazing that with my love of books I dithered for so long before spending my gift certificate. Three new books and one beloved box set. I glow with delight! (It could be radiation, but we'll call it delight.)

Thanks again to John Vick. And if you haven't read or submitted to The Adroitly Placed Word, you're missing out.

NaNo to NaNowhere

I think I've written about 10 words for my NaNovel today. Yesterday, nearly 4000. I am the Dave Kingman of writers. It's either a strikeout or a home run.

Is a sonnet sequence...

... One poem or many?

That is the stumper of the day.

So an editor comes along and says...

"Please submit a couple of poems."

I'm happy to comply. I'm delighted to comply. But for some reason picking poems after I get an invitation is harder than picking poems when I don't get an invitation. I'm like a puppy, and I want to make the inviter happy. I don't want there to be post-invitation regrets. I don't want the editor to say, "Yeah, we invited her but wow, that was a mistake!"

I'm overthinking this, again, aren't I?

Surveying the carnage

I finally gave up at about 1 o'clock, went upstairs and poked the sleeping Steve to tell him the Dems had a slight lead in Virginia and Montana but Missouri was a mess.

I wake to find that they still have a slight lead in Virginia and Montana and Missouri might still be a mess but it's a mess with a new Democrat senator.

The question is: Should I go wake him again to tell him? I really should.

I hate waiting

I have election jitters. I'm terrible when it comes to uncertainty.

Plagiarism again

The first issue of The Shit Creek Review has been tainted (heh) with plagiarism.

Last time I talked about plagiarism, I didn't mention Hugh McMillan by name. This time, I'm saying it.

Hugh McMillan, you are a lying, cheating slime. I hope every one of your previous defenders turns on you for the plagiarizing jerk you are.

Early voter votes early

We have early voting in Ohio, so Steve and I toddled down to vote (slightly) early this morning. Recent polls show that our votes are pretty much in line with the trend, but we did our part.

We didn't, however, get a sticker. I'm going to sue.

He deserves to die, but I don't deserve to kill him

I've never been for the death penalty, and I can't really change horses mid-stream when it comes to Saddam Hussein. Sure, I can agree that he doesn't deserve to be alive, but then I start thinking about my own life and I think that I may not be much of a killer, but I haven't done much to earn life either.

What's the old curse: May you get what you deserve?

May I not, please. May I not.

Turkey, turkey, turkey!

A scene in my NaNo involved shopping for a turkey so, in the interests of realism, I went shopping for a turkey, too.

It's roasting at the moment, and then there will be a turkeyfest. Come-a-longa my house around 3.

I'm handy! I'm dandy!

I'm the portable fixer-upper, I am.

Today's project? Making storm windows. Bob Vila would run away screaming from my methods, but ooh, the front hall is the toasty with the mosty now.

My NaNo is a nogo for today. I'm stumped already. That's a bad sign.

What the hell does that mean?

I got involved in a humorous conversation about the foods we ate growing up earlier today, and a number of people talked about eating white bread exclusively as a child.

My mother, though, was opposed to white bread. She called it tasteless "New Guinea clay." In retrospect, I don't even know what that means.

It's so strange to think that I've heard that phrase my whole life and have never known its meaning.

NaNo Excerpts

I'm such a rewriter that I can't figure if it would be fun to post any NaNo excerpts. I've already revised the first section three times, and I'm not likely to stop. I'm always tinkering when I hit a lull.

To excerpt or not to excerpt. That is the question.

What happened to my family?

My parents were Catholic, but not insane about it. Conservative, but not virulently so.

My brother, on the other hand, just said that he thinks global warming is a liberal conspiracy and that he's voting for Ken Blackwell because Ted Strickland is a bad man and it doesn't matter that Blackwell champions no separation of church and state because he's a republican.

Some day, my brother will realize that the fundies want the Catholics out of the country, too.

Warm fuzzies

I got thank yous from two poets this morning for my reading of their work for Didi Menendez's great projects. This just makes me happy as a very happy thing.

I think about working more with sound, and I wish more poets would consider doing recordings of their work. It's fun! No, really!

NaNo A-Go-Go

My canoe has arrived

Two poems in the inaugural "The Shit Creek Review."

Admit it. You're jealous.

NaNo not yet

I haven't started NaNoing. I think I'm skeered.

I have about three poems swirling in my noggin, but none want to come out and play. It isn't writer's block, it's writer's scaredy-catism. Only I can't figure out what I'm afraid of. Cooties?