just when you're comfortable, life smacks you in the ear

 journal, pre-crash, shadow bound, shadow queen, writing life  5 Responses »
May 232007
 

The other morning I made the happy discovery that my iPod plugs directly into my new car. Dude! I was happy, back when I bought my second car, that it had a tape player. (My first car had only a radio station — an AM-only radio station, at that.) This is so much better.

Then I got to work, and had to make a booking for a young man to bank some sperm. He was starting chemotherapy that afternoon. He's all of nineteen.

Some days, the contrast is more extreme than others.

I've been doing what I do best, lately, namely burying myself in work. In this particular instance, it's novel revisions. I might, if I didn't know my beta readers were lovely (and geographically dispersed) people, I just might suspect them of ganging up with a plot to drive me batshit insane by contradicting each other at every turn. What? How did that happen? You never set that up, one cries, as another points out Yeah. I saw that coming ages ago.1 I have actually finished all the heavy-lifting of the revision; now I have only to flick back and do spot-changes here and there.

And then — because Tess and Leigh may well lynch me if I don't — it's on to writing the sequel.

  1. Reactions are paraphrased, naturally. Because exact examples require context. My brain has all the genius of stewed prunes these days; context is too difficult. [↩]

a random assortment

 journal, pre-crash, shadow queen  7 Responses »
May 182007
 

Still no car. (I am now officially impatient.) (It has however finally arrived in town. I am picking it up, Tequila willing, tomorrow.)

Still no Doctor Who. (All you northern hemispherical types already watching it? Yeah. Not helping.) I am self-medicating with episodes of Firefly and past episodes of Doctor Who, but it's not helping much.

My workplace has ripped out all the nearby parking, and turned what's left into non-staff areas. So when I do have a car? I won't be able to park it anywhere.

Looking for an agent? OnyxHawke has gone mad.

I am buried in novel revisions, and have no brain for anything else. (Why do I change pivotal plot points at this late stage? Why?)

I need more sleep.

How about you?

psa

 journal, pre-crash  8 Responses »
Feb 102007
 

Dear members of the public:

There are a range of emotional responses when dealing with the walking wounded public service staff. You can be anything from friendly, to civil, to inattentive, to dismissive, to cantankerous, to downright rude.1 Friendly is always good, and you can't fail with friendly. But if you're feeling low and can't summon friendly, then go with civil and inattentive. That's fine by me. We are not, after all, bosom buddies. And I'm more interested in getting on with my work than chatting about your dog, anyway.

But for those who choose the nasty end of the spectrum, please to remember this: If we treated you in the same manner you routinely treat us, you would complain. Loud and long.

Me, I'm pretty tolerant. And I know what side my bread is buttered. So if you're rude, I will not be rude back. If you get some power kick out of watching me hold in my temper because I can't afford to lose my low-paying job, good for you. Enjoy that while you can.

But in that case please to remember this: Postal workers are not the only service staff capable of a sudden snap. I've quit higher-paying jobs for an ideal, so I'm fully capable of being irrational. Pull your head in. Before I climb over this desk and smack you down. I have staplers, heavy implements like telephones and computer monitors, and sharp scissors on this side of the bench. You have a table full of tatty magazines not even capable of delivering a paper cut.

Nolove
Me

ETA: See, I go and publish my rant, and what is the quote which greets me when I'm done? Seneca. Be silent as to services you have rendered, but speak of favours you have received. *chastised (but only a bit)*

  1. Yes, this list is heavily skewed toward the nasty end of the spectrum. Funny, that. [↩]

dream maker, you heart breaker

 journal, pre-crash, shadow queen  6 Responses »
Jan 172007
 

Revised Words: 1,651 / 1,660
Soundtrack: Doing Time for Patsy Cline, Elizabethtown

Well, there was no comet, at least not for me. Y'see, the best time to see the comet at the moment is apparently around 8pm. But at around 8pm? It's still daylight. Harder for comet-spotting. Also, I think I'll have to head somewhere I can see the horizon, because I think it's still pretty low in the sky for us. Which the trees around my backyard rather obscure. Boo.

In other news, take a look at the plant I noticed the other day in the work carpark. It's the one lurking behind the lamp-post. It's the one taller than the lamp-post.

Look at the size of that monster! I tell you, the triffids are coming, and they're starting with… oh, right. Nobody would start an invasion where I live. Okay. Stop the panic, everything's fine.

Except there's a freaking enormous plant lurking behind the lamp-post where I have to work!

why'd you sing hallelujah, if it means nothing to ya?

 journal, pre-crash  7 Responses »
Dec 172006
 

Before now, I've never really worked in a job that was high-public-contact. Before now, I didn't really know what a fake smile felt like.

I've always been one of those "if you don't feel it, you don't smile" types. Which is not to say I was surly and unsmiling, quite the contrary. Just that jobs involving the first line of defence, as I sometimes come to think of my job, mean the public have an uncanny knack of dropping in, or calling on the phone, at precisely the worst moment. But it's my job to deal with them and keep them away from interrupting anyone else. I have to smile, whether I want to or not.

Hence the fake smile, although fake is the wrong word. Insincere comes closer. Plastic feels best: it's not that it's not a smile, it's just that there's no real meaning other than the perfunctory and the professional behind it. No warmth or genuine attempt to bond.

And boy does that feel different. My eyes never feel quite right: they're too hard, and they sit at the top of my cheeks like a blockage, and the smile feels like it's cracking because my cheeks are so surprised to be pulling out a warm gesture when the body chemicals have given no warning.

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