An Odyssey of Dreams

I was going to write a post about the awesomeness that is Elizabeth Wein's (aka, eegatland) series that starts with The Winter Prince, and how right sdn was when she told me to go read it. I even wrote the title in my little Semagic box. But then I had to go home, and I was tired, I was busy, and then OMG Cultural Appropriation! exploded on the internets.

I followed it for a week with my jaw dropped. I haven't commented because, honestly, I don't know what to think. I did run off and ask lareinenoire for her opinion, and we had a discussion about how guilty and uncomfortable this whole thing makes us feel. I haven't read everything and I'm actually trying to escape it because it's so painful to watch people yell at each other.

But here's the thing. I grew up knowing exactly how much bigger my family would have been if there hadn't been a Shoah. My grandmother told stories of her relatives who died at Babi Yar. I knew that my mother hadn't gotten into Kiev Polytechnic, despite having great grades and acing the entrance examinations, because her passport read "Jew" under "Nationality." I knew how hard my parents had to work to get my sister into the best school in the Kiev, because her passport said the same thing. I know why they left the Soviet Union, and part of what weighed into their decision was that their youngest daughter wanted to be a doctor when she grew up, and there was no way that was going to happen there. (She's since decided to become a doctor of a different sort.)

But on the other hand, as Tevye said, is that I have fought against their fear for a long time. I know how much they heard the word "Yid," and I know how they'd seen Jewish women who wound up married to non-Jews treated. And I know how worried they were when I dated a man who wasn't Jewish. And I know how many problems they had with my now-husband, even though they love him as their own son. (A lot can be overlooked when a man decides do convert, but that doesn't mean they didn't have to accept him for himself before that happened.) And, to be honest, I know the prejudice they hold in their hearts regarding people of darker skin tones (not that that stopped them from voting for Obama and telling off their friends who were afraid to do so). It's something they work through every day of their lives, and it's something I find myself working through as well. I still remember yelling at my mother, as a teenager, that "We're in America now! People don't act that way!" I'm pretty sure that didn't help her fears any.

But love? Well, that does help. In undergrad social psychology we learned that what breaks down the barriers, what makes people see each other as people and not as "Other" (a term I really, really hate) is working together. Give people of different cultures and races and backgrounds a task and make sure they have to work side-by-side, and eventually, slowly, these barriers we put up for ourselves tumble.

My parents have lived in America for almost 20 years. And in that time, a lot of things have changed. Their elder daughter went to the university of her dreams because of their choice. Their younger daughter is pursuing a PhD, and this summer she married a man who was willing to change his faith, in part to be with her for the rest of his life. And his family accepted her, and she goes to his grandmother's house for Christmas.

I wrote this on Friday afternoon, and having sat on it for a weekend, figure it's still worth posting. I don't like feeling like I'm angsting publicly but this journal is supposed to be my outlet for creativity, and creativity has been sorely lacking.

deliasherman once told me that you can't write while things are going wrong. She's right, of course. (I'll not say "She's always right," but near enough. Let's go with "She's often right.") So perhaps it's no wonder that I draw blanks whenever I so much as look toward one of my writing notebooks - this entry, after all, is being composed on paper dedicated for class notes, during class, no less.

But none of that gives me any comfort when it comes to how well Honour isn't going. Sure, the past month or two I've had plenty of excuses. But what about before? Has the steam gone out of my writing? Am I bored with my own story?

If that's the case, there's also the question of the short stories that have been sitting by, waiting their turn. I've only gotten a few lines on one of them, and I wonder where it's going and what my audience for that one could possibly be.

It feels like someone rolled a big-ass boulder into the middle of my creative stream and every so often I just collect what leaks through.

Well, okay. That's fine for now, I guess. I'm busy with school, and my family is taking far more of my attention now than previously (one way to know you're no longer "the baby" - everyone is looking to you to tell them what to do). But these things are temporary. I won't be in classes forever, and as my family heals and deals we'll lean on each other less.

And then what? Will my interest magically reappear? Do I just wait by the window for my muse to drop by? Until it condescends to see me?

I am so grounded in real life and the mundane right now I cannot fathom fantasy of any sort. (And so I went to Boskone. Heh.) And it makes me want to cry.

Well, it was my first Arisia, and I wouldn't be terribly surprised if it were my last. We had fun, doubly so as I managed to drag Doyle out to the con and we met interesting people, but there are only so many ways the Universe has to scream "not your kind of party!" before I wrap my head around that.

( Quick Rundown. )

Later we went home and ordered Thai food. I wanted to wear the corset until mrsix showed up, but I lay down and my lower back went into a spasm. The last bit was no fun at all - we had to get the corset off, and get my electric stim unit, and justbeast gave me a quick massage that helped, but in the end, I was basically immobile for the rest of the evening. People ate and left, and more people came by, and left. I read some Orphan's Tales, though that was bad of me because Doyle & I are supposed to be reading them aloud.

Now I'm at work, but I get to leave early for my chiro appointment and massage at 3. I just need to revive myself to get some work done before that point.

I miss writing. Not an accurate statement in an of itself, perhaps. I do much more writing now than I have since I got my BS, much more reading than even in my deepest binges.

But it's not the kind of writing I'm talking about. I miss my characters and their stories. I miss being able to write 3K in a day because I'm just so into the scene, the moment, the story. Witty banter, exploration. I miss going to the Diesel, sitting down with my little black book and pouring out words on a page - my words, and yet not mine for they come from somewhere else that's somehow all in my head. And rereading it later and realising that yes, I wrote that. And I did it at least half-way decently and entirely intentionally. I miss exploring things I don't know about a place I've been the only one to ever imagine.

That's not to say I'm not enjoying myself now. Grad school is definitely what I want out of life, but it's not all I want out of it. Never has been, nor will it ever be. But I am enjoying it - enjoying the friends I've made and the people I've met and the things I've learned about the science and what's going on in biology, and myself. I'm also doing well, by all accounts. Grades don't count for all that much in a five-plus year program, but mine are darn good, and the professors I've interacted with thus far all have positive things to say. I've learned enough from the job of hell not to repeat old mistakes. And I enjoy writing scientifically, too. I love putting down the things I've done, the way I've moved our knowledge of something along. It's rewarding, it's enlightening, and I still get way happy about a turn of phrase, or a creative way of explaining a concept.

I guess I binge on one and miss the other, is all. So much for working consistently. Balance is a figment of my imagination, it seems.

Maybe it's time to set up a writing schedule to keep these funks in check. Say, 500 words a day on anything I want so long as its not to do with one of my assignments. Sound start, I suppose, but the idea will need to percolate more. And maybe wait until after Thanksgiving.

What the title says. I've been buried under a pile of grad-school-y stuff. It's been an amazingly positive experience thus far, but certainly an exhausting one. Voluntarily I've been putting in hours that have had people in the lab I'm rotating telling me that I'm working too hard and I really shouldn't stress so much. The funny thing is that I'm not stressed at all on this score - it's the most biologically-related fun I've had since I left undergrad. Absolutely wonderful!

So wonderful, in fact, that it's been stimulating my writing. Out of the blue I started rewriting one of the most troublesome parts of Glamour - the prologue - and just today came up with a really nifty idea for short stories. ( Cut to spare those who aren't interested. And also, rambly. )

In other news, I'm enjoying the latest season of Stargate: Atlantis like little else. Character moments! And backstory! And group bonding! Yay! Though I haven't seen last weeks', and won't see this weeks' for a bit. SG-1 is looking good too, though I'm sad about the cancellation.

I'm feeling less-than-thrilled over the upcoming VM and BSG premieres, though. Both shows have kind of left me underwhelmed in the aftermath of their second seasons, and the only way I was able to enjoy the Veronica Mars finale was by tossing the plot out the window and forgetting anything that even stank of continuity and cohesion. Though to be fair, I wasn't thrilled with the the first season's finale, either. Battlestar Galactica sort of went downhill for me after the Pegasus episodes, and for pretty much the same reasons. I'm not at all impressed with the commercials SciFi's been running, either.

My semagic informs me that today is matociquala's birthday. Happy Birthday Bear!

Today is also the start of Rosh Hashannah, so if you thought that I'd be on more now that I've appeared briefly, you were most likely mistaken. Nevertheless, Shannah Tovah to all that celebrate, and may you be inscribed in the Book of Life!

So. There has been a recent "meme" of sorts about the all the cool people's blogs about "how to write a novel." (In case you don't read, it can be found here, here, here, here, and here, at the very least and in the order I saw them.) And really, that's great.

I've already (technically) written a novel, though. And while I don't think I'm cool enough to share the process, I will say that my brain did conjure something very similar to the spreadsheet idea as a cookie for me (it was a notepad file, started off by keeping wordcount, and then evolved to keeping the names of the chapters - Glamour's not the sort of book where I need to keep track of the POV). In any case, I have a fairly "set" method for writing novels that is differently-evolved from my method of writing short stories or essays, and I'm pretty happy with it. It works for me.

What I don't have is a way to actually get myself to look at the book again. I can think about it, make a list of all the things that are broken and need to be fixed - even, on occasion, how I can fix them, but I can't bring myself to open that bloody file labelled "Glamour Draft 2.doc" and get to work. I dread it. I'm absolutely sure it'll be horrible, and I'll hate it and won't stand to even edit it and will destroy my own creation in a blaze of madness.

Rationally, I know it's not that bad. I know where it's broken, but I also know where the strong points are. It is fixable, but I actually need to be willing to fix it. I'm willing to bet that it'd be nice work if I could get it. And if you can get it, please won't you tell me how?

I slept almost until noon today. Wow.

So the first week has absolutely overwhelmed me with information and science-y goodness. Which is grand, because it's been such a positive experience.

However, as a result, I've gotten absolutely nothing done on anything remotely related to writing books, short stories, or anything of the sort. The closest I've come, I think, is finding this really nifty image that quite resembles my heroine prior to all the things that happen to her in the books. I know the tagging says it's an angel, but I see no wings, but a really pissed of girl, so I'm going with that. The bonus of that has convinced me her hair need not be all that long, so I'm thinking the length in the picture is right for what I want to do (and has the bonus of having Adelle really resemble her). Dunno what she's doing hanging out on that rock in that really nice dress, though. Feel free to suggest your own interpertations.

In other news, Doyle has started an insane Mythbusters marathon with the aid of the DVR, and bought a Nintendo DS, with Tetris. I have, as a result, been staring at bright screens for inordinate amounts of time, and that really ought to end. I think I'll go buy tea, instead.

It's a curse. I shall not see a full Shakespeare production this summer.

We drove out to see Redfeather Theatre do As You Like It - which is about an hour away from where we live. Got there just in time with our Wendy's meals (didn't think to get dinner ahead of time), and settled in on our picnic blanket to watch. They even gave me a student discount though I don't have my ID yet. We got through almost an hour of the production (I think to Act II, Scene 7 of the play itself) when the clouds grew dark and menacing and started flashing lightning prompting the actor playing Jacques to utter the title line instead of the famous speech.

The ad lib certainly amused my boyfriend (hereafter referred to as Doyle because I'm tired of always saying "my boyfriend") but shut down the production pretty effectively. And now we spent another hour driving back through heavy rain. I didn't even get to see Rosalind quote Marlowe! Very, very sad.

Yes, I still live. Spent the week in busy RL world, the upshot of which is the arrival of my shiny new Vaio laptop. It weighs 4lb, and holds a lot of stuff. Or rather it will, when I get around to transfering the lot of stuff from one computer to the other. Which will probably be this week.

In the middle of Robin McKinley's The Hero and the Crown which is amusing. Still needing the light stuff, definitely, as real life has turned my brain to splooge. Maybe I'll return to something nearing sane in a few days. One can only hope.

Unfortunately, I missed my last chance to see the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company for the year in favor of family, but I shall comfort myself with the knowledge that Taming of the Shrew is very far from my favorite play. Still, free Shakespeare - sadness.

Ah well. No need to be too down. How about a poll? Shiny poll!

[Poll #794083]

Spent the afternoon making icons - this one is a partial of the Vertigo Tarot's 9 of Wands. I particularly liked the image of human ingenuity and power breaking through the box.

Other icons from my binge can be found here, naturally - everything after the writer's block one is new. Free to a good home, but please let me know what you take and do not hotlink.

Otherwise, I've been at work on not-so-sooper-sekrit-craft-project, and trying to compensate for having stayed up 'till 4 AM futzing with the desktop. Futzing with the desktop continued on various levels throughout the rest of the day, but I think I've gotten it to the point where I can deal until I purchase a box with a fan powerful enough to keep my processor cool. As is, there's a voronado pointed at the box to keep it manageable and from frying anything.

Still re-reading Austen like it's going out of style. Maybe I'll even tackle Mansfield Park once I've gone over all my favorite scenes to death.

I think I shall crash early to compensate for poor bedtime this morning.