In Which Our Heroine Receives Double the Love

18 February 2004

Last night, I had had my lovely wild mushroom lasagna and tomato basil soup, and we were home and about to have Timprov open his presents. I went up to see if I had any interesting e-mail. Came bounding down the stairs, thump thump thump wheee: "Neo-Opsis wants to buy 'An Attack of Conscience'!" (The brain-sucking boyfriend story, for those of you who know this one.) (Also, I don't actually speak in links. It just seemed convenient.) Hugs and grins, and then I said, "I'm going to check my other e-mail just to make sure I don't have another acceptance sitting there." Thump thump thump whee, up the stairs. Thump thump back down again: "Heh. Funny thing about that...."

So Alien Skin is buying "Trail's End," and I am a happy kid. Two sales in one day. Three so far this week, as long as it's not a strict Sunday-to-Saturday week. (And note the ubiquitous writer-greed: I can't just say "three sales this week," I have to throw in "so far." Naturally; because who could be happy with just three when four or five or ten would do? I mean, happy, yes, but contented, that's the question. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I can't be disappointed when I don't get an acceptance to an anthology I didn't submit to. At least, I can't be disappointed in the editor. Although this book has eaten enough of my brain that I'm not really disappointed with myself, either, in this case; more relieved that I was able to be reasonable.)

So, a good writing day, a good food day, a good sale day. I think Timprov had a good birthday, too. He seemed to feel thoroughly spoiled, which is always a good birthday sign, and he was able to come up with other birthday stuff he'd like to do later. This five days of birthday thing: it's hard to get people really going on this, when they aren't raised with it. But he's working on it, Mark's working on it, and we're poking the rest of the world.

Since Sarah has asked: the ban on yellow and peach bras is entirely personal based on my coloration. Some shades of "nude" are also banned: if they aren't dark enough, they make me look kind of sick. (They're never light enough to actually look like nude on me. No no no.) I also can't generally wear these colors in other clothing, though sometimes I try with a warm yellow. Pink is also right out because Mrissas Don't Wear Pink. The sassy grape incredulity was just a moment of color-naming shock: what, exactly, makes a grape sassy? Fermenting? Because the color in question was not the color of red wine nor of white wine nor yet of champagne. (And speaking of colors Mrissas can't wear: champagne. Um, no.)

If you see me in person and ever wonder why I wear so much red, the answer is twofold: 1) I look decent in red; 2) red is hard for the stupid clothing people to screw up. If you screw red up too far, it's no longer red but pink. And it seems like they make some kind of tolerable red just about every year, whereas green...oh, I love green, but you just can't plan on them having good green. It would be a very bad plan to make.

I was informed by reliable sources this week that I have pre-Raphaelite hair. I believe the accurate word to describe my reaction here was "tickled." I don't think I was consciously going for that look, but when one has my skin color...well, one's "type" is a bit more limited. Best choices being pre-Raphaelite maiden, mad Viking chick, and consumptive. (Other suggestions welcome. I can't/won't do Goth for several reasons: I refuse to dye my hair, for the first and foremost, and I have always felt that Goth garb looks best on the rail-thin, by which I mean the ones shaped like rails. And while I am not exactly a large person, no one has ever referred to my boyish figure without snickering. And besides, I can't pull off the disaffected pose necessary.) I've done all three of those, and while I have to say the middle one is my favorite, the pre-Raphaelite thing comes in a close second. If only I didn't have to look dreamy for it. It's not that I don't look dreamy sometimes. It's that I don't look dreamy deliberately. And mostly when I'm actually being dreamy, I look kind of fierce. Intense, at the very least. I don't think pre-Raphaelites are supposed to look fierce. Mad Viking chicks are perfectly well allowed to look fierce, but usually are supposed to look, well, larger. And I would require rouge to look consumptive, and Mrissas Don't Wear Make-up. So.

But speaking of my general ancestral region, do I love this city or what? Do you know what they gave me today in the home and garden section of my paper? An article on Finnish design, with the addresses of several stores that carry all kinds of Finnish design items. Dude. I am there. I am so totally there. I may wait until I finish the Not The Moose, because this type of Finnish design is almost entirely related to Midnight Sun Rising stuff instead: it's too late for the Not The Moose Book/Thinger. But this is so apropos. There's stuff in these stores, see, and stuff in these stories, too, and I feel confident that just going and ogling the stuff will be a lovely good thing.

I'm not ready for spring yet! It's supposed to be 38 today. That's above freezing, is what it is. And I'm not ready for spring. I haven't had enough winter yet. It's only February. This winter has to make up for four other winters and I'm not done! I know I should be calm and rational about this; I know I should remember that there's snow in bulk every year for St. Patrick's Day/boys' state high school basketball tournament. We've still got some winter yet to go. But...38 degrees! Come on! Ridiculous! Harumph!

But hey, I sold a couple of stories, so even spring couldn't deter my mood. Whee!

Back to Novel Gazing.

And the main page.

Or the last entry.

Or the next one.

Or even send me email.