It's so hot here that my computer died last night. Oxbridge fixed it, and got my wireless up and running again (he's so clever!), but it seems to have died on me again this morning, leaving me to my veeeeeerrrrry slow dialup. So, no pictures today, I'm afraid. Maybe I'll add some tomorrow.
I had some thoughts about how we identify with our avatars and all that, but I'm having difficulty sitting in the heat, so I'm just going to prattle a bit instead. Once OB gets up (he does a lot of his concert organizing paperwork at 2 am), I'm going to see if he wants to go down to the beach. It rained a little last night, but it still is rather insufferable. Certainly not a morning for writing much.
I really should be hitting the streets with my novel and getting an agent. At the very least I should be writing serious, publishable stuff. I have this story idea that hinges on some of Beckett's plays with allusions to the information superhighway, but it makes my brain hurt. Instead, I find myself writing fluff for Gaian writing contests.
I have to admit, I was hoping for an ego boo there after almost but not quite placing in a national literary contest (yes, I'm still sulking about that razz ). But I'm also not sending my best stuff. I mean, if I think it's publishable, I'm not going to send it to a contest where the prize is 10000 Gaian Gold (read: $5 US). So, you would think it would be an opportunity for me to let my hair down, write what I want and not care.
But I do. I think I can't help it. I recieved this critique on "Dog Story" yesterday (a story which has been workshopped in one of my RL writer's groups):
"I’m sorry it has taken me so long to get to you about your story. Ehh, well let’s see here, how am I going to go about this (if you haven’t noticed yet, this may be bad). Really I don’t know how to start or when I would finish Miss Wolfe so I’ll be quite blunt for a few sentences. Grammar could use a good look over, I’m not one to talk but still it is apparent. Spelling wasn’t as bad as some others… but it was still let’s say noticeable? To finish this I’ll just say to keep at writing, and that you're writing skills do seem to be advancing at an alarming rate *nods* "
Er. I mean, I know the story has problems, but grammar isn't one of them. Mostly, it's not very engaging and it's also only borderline fantasy. Most of the judge's commentary is rather nonsensical, and the fact that he talks about me "improving" when that was my first ever Gaian entry ever makes me wonder if he even read the right story. So, I shouldn't feel down about something like the above.
And yet, I do. Perhaps it's like I feel pleased in Barton towns when a computer sprite moves next to my computer sprite and says "Nice hat!". I mean, the hat isn't "real", but if someone did that in real life, I would feel pleased. Gaian writer's contests aren't "real" in the sense that they will do anything for my writing career, but like virtual gold, I find myself caring about them. Usually, this is ok (who doesn't like being complimented on her hat?), but not if it makes you feel bummed.
The wise and caring Oxbridge has told me to knock off submitting to writing contests. Why not spend the energy on publishable stuff. He has a point, but I still feel the urge to submit. So, I wrote a couple of poems and entered them in poetry contests. Poetry is one of those things I like, but I don't think I'm all that great a poet. And these days you have to be a GREAT poet to get anywhere. Shoot, Quincy Troop has to rely on a professorship for his rent money, I understand. So Gaia is perfect for my poetical ambitions.
Here's some of my poems then. We'll see if anyone else likes them wink
The first is in the voice of John Donne. I hope I'm not stereotyping the early 17th century "Fair maid why dost thou reject me?" bit too much (Poor John, chocolate hadn't made its way to england just yet).
**************
THE SHIPWRACK
by V. Wolfe
(RP'ing John Donne)
Cresting through foam fleck'd wave
Toss'd into the sea turn'd milk
Where breathe houlds hope that one might save
Such wretch'd souls such as mine ilk
Inside the tumult, an UNDINE is seen
To red fleck'd vision at lyfe's edge
Storm seeks like, curl'd soft, gyftes mean
Will'd, not bestow'd, forc'd 'pon me this pledge:
To such wise am I sundered and wrent,
O, singl'd force of myn desire
In whiche irone certainty becom'th unbent
In the Vulcan forces of love's fire
When the forges doth dim, and the storm abate
The castaway is him, and shee scorns debate
***********************
THE SHIPWRACK
by V. Wolfe
(RP'ing John Donne)
Cresting through foam fleck'd wave
Toss'd into the sea turn'd milk
Where breathe houlds hope that one might save
Such wretch'd souls such as mine ilk
Inside the tumult, an UNDINE is seen
To red fleck'd vision at lyfe's edge
Storm seeks like, curl'd soft, gyftes mean
Will'd, not bestow'd, forc'd 'pon me this pledge:
To such wise am I sundered and wrent,
O, singl'd force of myn desire
In whiche irone certainty becom'th unbent
In the Vulcan forces of love's fire
When the forges doth dim, and the storm abate
The castaway is him, and shee scorns debate
***********************
And this one is in my voice. Hope it's not in the TMI catagory redface redface
(Gaian anonymity helps me here, once again)
*************
ON THE ROAD
Rolling out of the too dry sheets
Waking easily from too much sleep
Uncluttered floor, a clean mirror greets
An empty face, a day to keep
Wishing for a snoring form
To grumble as she runs about
In a well ordered, frantic morn
Things she does so well without
An ironed skirt, an ordered day
A world of smiles, a pleasant pen
Clock in eye's corner, and she's away
Crowded flight, the smell of men
Doorway hug across the dog (who shed)
There's places to sleep, and then there's their bed.
*************
ON THE ROAD
Rolling out of the too dry sheets
Waking easily from too much sleep
Uncluttered floor, a clean mirror greets
An empty face, a day to keep
Wishing for a snoring form
To grumble as she runs about
In a well ordered, frantic morn
Things she does so well without
An ironed skirt, an ordered day
A world of smiles, a pleasant pen
Clock in eye's corner, and she's away
Crowded flight, the smell of men
Doorway hug across the dog (who shed)
There's places to sleep, and then there's their bed.
*************
With Quill in Hand (and cold tea on desk),
V.
