Log of a Day

[[There you go, Koala, Maman. Have a peek at my Monday, incomplete as it is, and enjoy.]]

Something rather unexpected occured last night as I huddled over a Tumblr blog, gaze fixed upon the lovely notebook images I had discovered: Katerina hooked her chin over my shoulder and peered around me to the screen, then proceeded to spaz out over a certain image that she appreciated. I'd given the photo passing glance myself, then started to sweep on down the screen, so her showing up in such a matter startled me quite badly. "What? What? You've never done that before and I'm not working on your story and for heaven's sakes I didn't even think of having you in my head right now." But there she stayed, as coolly as if she belonged, commenting on a few more pictures before retiring for the night, and after the initial start I could scarcely contain my delight, as sharing your mind with a character, however brief the span of time may be, is a privilege indeed.

I have set myself a goal for the morning, and made breakfast the incentive; one thousand words must be entered into the document for The Sapor of Ink before I may go scavenge in the kitchen. I am already hungry, but not terribly so; this lack of urgency is of course why I am meandering lazily through Tumblr and scribbling in Blogger. The continued scene involves Marlowe Higginson encountering a ghost for the first time in her life, and it will be an interesting thing to observe, especially as he is so matter-of-fact about his lack of substance in the world. Really, I am fond of that boy. Ghost-hood and a tragic romance was the very best I could give him by way of reward for being so enchanting.

After the thousand words have been written and breakfast obtained and consumed, I shall crack the cover of the thirteenth volume of Fruits Basket (Rin, as it happens), and resume the story, hopefully getting through that and the fourteenth volume by the end of the day. At some point in the afternoon or evening I should set myself goals for at least two more stints of a thousand words apiece, because I have much catching up to do. Eventually playing with the story will be less of an option and sitting down to churn out four thousand words at a time will be a necessity; until that happens, I shall continue enjoying Marlowe's weird preoccupation with the process of fermentation. What ever do you do with characters who insist on being geeks?

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And now, forty minutes later -- hair braided, teeth brushed, face washed, loveseat straightened, VM read, laptop cord plugged into the outlet, the plate from my one a.m. supper relocated from the living room bookshelf to the kitchen counter -- I pull up Ellie Goulding on YouTube and begin writing. Such is life.

~ ~ ~ ~

Half an hour has passed, and the required words written. I go now to eat breakfast at one twenty-five in the afternoon, leaving Gallix to flail in excitement because Marlowe insulted him by calling him a quidnunc. He is so very fond of humans who make use of archaic words, especially if they happen to be directed at him, and even more so if they are intended derisively. He has a curious obsession with self-deprecating humour, and a fondness for taking verbal jabs; I do wonder if this makes him British. It would explain a few things, anyway, though I can't have him running around in my head with a British accent just now. It wouldn't serve either of us one bit. The American accent must remain intact for the time being.

~ ~ ~ ~

Another half hour has passed (minus breakfast), one which included a conversation about HelloKitty hair clips and another thousand words, because I kept telling myself "I'll stop after another hundred. Just one more paragraph. Well, maybe another sixty-seven words to even out the word count..." Marlowe has just been informed that she is carrying on a less-than-casual conversation with a ghost; I shall discover her reaction to his announcement after breakfast and a volume of Fruits Basket. Two thousand words has earned me that, at least, or so I like to imagine.

~ ~ ~ ~

At two forty-three in the afternoon I return to the living room, having thoroughly swept the kitchen floor and made and eaten a tasty breakfast involving beef strips laid out on a hamburger bun and toasted with mozzarella cheese. It proved a worthy reward for those two thousand words, and a satisfactory precursor for reading volume thirteen of the Fruits Basket series. On to Rin I go, after indulging for the tiniest bit in the further Tumblr archives of The Written Road.

~ ~ ~ ~

The adjective "finifugal" belongs to the Doctor, as he is one who attempts to prolong relationships and books in futile attempts to thwart endings. It is going into my "Words" document for further investigation and employment.

It is a bad thing that I must make myself drop the pen, turn away from the keyboard, and stop writing to begin reading a story I love. Perhaps it has something to do with what T. Coraghessan Boyle astutely observed, that "Writing is an obsessive-compulsive disorder." It certainly seems to be so, at least today when I cannot seem to get enough of it.

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Three fifty-three p.m. and volume thirteen is finished. All I want to do at the moment is go to sleep. Perhaps I will fetch a bowl of cheerios instead, or keep working on The Sapor of Ink. Only nine thousand, two hundred and fifty-one words to go to make up the difference between what I have today and what I should have today -- this goal feels so doable. But first, back to Tumblr.

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Four forty-one p.m. Ghost has been introduced to human, and the two are getting acquainted. Marlowe is handling this remarkably well; I suppose her capacity to take these things in stride has something to do with her curious interest in zymology and her lack of imagination. If she had significant ability to fantasize she would probably have much more difficulty taking Gallix at face value. I'd worried at first that she would prove difficult and insist on being the sort of person who could not have a ghost as a companion, given her detachment and her [mostly] scientific attitude, but she is turning out to be much more appropriate than the dreamy girl with whom I had originally intended to play spook.

I now have eight thousand, six hundred and ninety-three words to go to meet par for Day Eight. Back to writing [a.k.a. scribbling a paragraph here and there between any number of jaunts to YouTube, Tumblr, email, and Quotable Quotes, not to mention the occasional 'wander' into the kitchen for a drink of water. That bowl of cheerios is still waiting. I think I shall have it for lunch instead of second breakfast after all].

~ ~ ~ ~

Five oh-two p.m.; I have just consulted with Google-san to determine the appropriate usage of "effect" and "affect" in this particular instance. How gratifying to know that my grammatical instincts led me correctly.

~ ~ ~ ~

Five ten p.m. A flying ant has been effectively smashed between the body and wing of a handily situated paper airplane; what an inspiring experience. I return to my OpenOffice document refreshed by my daily dose of murder.

~ ~ ~ ~

Five thirty-one p.m. Seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one words to go. No, I am not intending to finish it all tonight. There are other, better things to be done today, and those need attention as well. Such as eating a few bites of cheerios out of a blue plastic cup for lunch, something that one does not get to do every day of one's life. I am indeed a privileged human.

~ ~ ~ ~

Six twenty-two p.m. Six thousand, nine hundred and two words stand between The Sapor of Ink's total and the par for the day. Eventually Marlowe will have to face the fact that Gallix is not an underdone potato and she is not Scrooge, but until then, they make a delightful pair. She does take conversation with a supposed figment of her imagination in stride; I suppose it helps that she gets to insult him and he gets to look offended. She's been alone too long, that girl. Rather spoiled the shock of talking to a ghost, since she, being her practical self, had to take it in stride and decide that she is merely suffering from a brief lapse in synapse continuity. Realizing that she is not the only one who sees him will come as a bit of a surprise, I think, but by that time she will be so accustomed to his presence and personality that it will seem quite obvious that her narrow minded little brain could not come up with such a pleasing companion.

Gallix, on the other hand, has just informed me that he has an unpleasant back-story, and that I did not expect: discovery is ahead.

~ ~ ~ ~

Eleven ten p.m. The kitchen has been helped along to rights, the string has been wound, and the floor swept. Back to scribbling it is, unless the night has other plans, and after scribbling... dinner. I am having difficulty deciding between a bowl of cheerios and a compilation of leftovers. Fortunately, there will be at least another hour between now and that decision.

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One oh-six a.m. Two hours between the quondam "now" and that decision, apparently; I have just been into the kitchen to place a piece of chicken between two halves of a bun before holing up in the living room, and that is dinner. I rather wish I had gone with the cheerios, as poultry at night is hard pressed to sit well with me, but with cereal the milk would have induced a transient sore throat. Can't win for losing, it seems, at least not when it comes to the digestive system. However, I have reached seven thousand and eight words, and that is a pleasant feeling. Even more pleasing is the fact that, in seven thousand words of NaNo, I have used "was" three times, and that only in dialogue. Yes, the writing is trash, and no, I have no delusions of grandeur in prose, but to so naturally and thoroughly avoid "was" in the first draft gives a true sense of accomplishment.

In The Sapor of Ink, Marlowe is attempting to understand why her perceived bit of underdone potato is so ornery. It would make much more sense if she would relinquish the stubborn belief that she is hallucinating and simply accept the ghost for what and who he is. Perhaps another thousand words tonight will usher in better mutual understanding for the two of them. I shall see.

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Two eighteen a.m. That final thousand words has been written, and I am signing off for the night, as it is about time to sleep. Marlowe is that much closer to making friends with Gallix, and I am that much closer to an intimate relationship with my pillow.