queenbookwench

It'a tough to engage with the world and its events when the media largely pursues a bread-and-circuses approach in order to catch attention. I realize that that attitude doesn't come out of nowhere, that human beings do turn to look and linger at a crash site.

But it does no good whatsoever for anyone to feel my heart tearing in pieces over any news coming out of Washington DC, either engendered by the assclowns currently infesting governmental centers, or in the environs (the recent shooting) so my intention to ostrich becomes more vigorous. What's more, the spouse, who usually watches the news every waking moment, even turned off the yatter yesterday.

I try to fill my time with purpose and pleasure that harms no one. Plan things I hope will bring pleasure to others, like: my sister's seventieth is coming up. I took a slew of our old super eight films to a place to get them converted and color corrected, to surprise her with--I hope. One of those super-eights is from 1948, when the parents' generation were all young, all those voices gone now. Most of the films are from the sixties and early seventies, before my parents split; then they start up again in the eighties with my spouse having bought us a camera.

It's going to take time to convert that stuff--the small box I chose will be just under a grand. Phew. But I've been waiting years for the price to come down, and I figure I daren't wait any longer.

In just for me, I'm busy reworking some very early stories. And realizing that ostriching was a defense mechanism that started in when I was very young, coming out in my passion for escape-reading and for storytelling.

The storytelling urge was very nearly a physical reaction,a kind of invisible claw right behind my ribs, partly that urge, and partly a shiver of anticipation. I can remember it very clearly when I was six years old, in first grade. I already knew how to read, but that was the grade in which public schools in LA taught reading, so I got to sit by myself and draw while the others were taught the alphabet and phonics. Writing stories was laborious, and I got frustrated easily if I didn't know how to spell a word, but I learned fast that adults only had about three words' of patience in them before they chased me off with a "Go play!" or, if I was especially mosquito-ish, "Go clean your room!" or "Wash the dishes!" (That started when I turned 7)

But drawing was easy, and I could narrate to myself as I illustrated the main events. So I did that over and over as the other kids struggled thru Dick and Jane. This became habit, and gave me a focus away from the social evolution of cliques--I do recall trying to make myself follow the alpha girl of that year (also teacher's pet, especially the following year) but I found her interests so boring I went back to my own pursuits.

I do remember not liking the times between stories; I was happiest when the images began flowing, but I never really pondered what that urge was. It was just there. I knew that most didn't have it, and for the most part I was content to entertain myself, except when we had to read our efforts aloud in class, there was an intense gratification if, IF, one could truly catch the attention of the others and please them as well as self. I remember fourth grade, the two class storytellers were self and a boy named Craig. His were much funnier than any of my efforts. Mine got wild with fantasy, which teachers frowned on. I tried to write funny and discovered that it was HARD. It seemed to come without effort to Craig.

In junior high, I finally found a tiny coterie of fellow nerds who like writing, and we shared stories back and forth. Waiting for a friend to come back after reading one and give her reactions made the perils of junior high worth enduring. One of those friends died a couple summers ago, and left her notebooks to me. In eighth/ninth grade, she wrote a Mary Sue self-insert about the Beatles. I have it now--it breathes innocence, and the air of the mid sixties. Maybe I ought to type it up and put it up at A03. I think she'd like it to find an audience, even if it's as small an audience as our tiny group back then.

Anyway, a day is a great day if I have a satisfying project to work on...and I don't have to hear a certain name, which is ALWAYS reprehensible. Always. And yet has a following. But...humans do linger to look at the tcrash site.

I've been snowed by various loads of stuff, including reading subs for Viable Paradise's workshop in October. My reading has been sporadic, and usually language-related. Like, I'm making my glacial way through a really good biography of Liselotte von her Pfalz, which is in German. I'm reading French comics, and so on and so on.

But! When I lumber this old bod out for daily steps, I listen to audiobooks. I've been making my way through T. Kingfisher's stories, and enjoyed them, but took a break for a real delight called RAVENMASTER, by Christopher Skaife. He wrote about his job as Ravenmaster at the Tower of London.

I'm sure the printed book is just fine--it's vigorously written, full of all kinds of facts as well as legends, etc, and sprinkled with humor. But I highly recommend the audio book, which he narrated. He has a great voice, which adds to the sheer delight. I wish it was longer.

OK, back to work trying to crawl back into my twelve-year-old headspace so I can finish a project that has been hanging fire for too many years.