Of The Slime
5 December 2001
Holy crap. I got stories. I got ten stories between 10:00 last night and 7:00 this morning. And I don't even know any of the writers -- it's not anybody I've bothered. (I haven't done much bothering yet, so if I haven't bothered you, consider yourself bothered: write me a story!) Okay, so ten stories do not an anthology make, but I didn't realize people had so many alien-hating stories just sitting around waiting for me. Cool.
This online journal thing is dangerous. I was reading Raechel Henderson Moon's journal, and she mentioned her Spellbound gift packs. Well, I hadn't intended to buy my cousin Joey a Christmas present...but the price is right, and I like Joey, and I like Spellbound...and I think Joey would like Spellbound....
For those of you who are having a problem with the frames here, www.marissalingen.com is actually redirected to this site for now. The thing is, we don't know how permanent that will be, so I'd bet on my named domain as somewhere that will get you where you want to go more permanently. But if you're looking to see what page you're actually on, rather than just the marissalingen.com header, the above will do it for you.
Oh, and I now have a very large (but finite) number of e-mail addresses! You can send to anything you feel like @marissalingen.com, and it'll get to me. Isn't that nifty? Forwarding is a beautiful thing. Abuse not your powers.
James Lileks had a turn of phrase that was so nifty I just wanted to quote it here: "God-bothering brutes." What a lovely phrase for certain types of violent fundamentalism. I really do like that. "If he hadn't written the rest of the song, it'd be worth it for just that one line. Let's do it again, just for me: since the first amphibians crawled out of the slime, of the slime." Okay, so I'm having an Arlo moment. But sometimes Arlo is right.
We quote the same Arlo when we listen to the Sarah McLachlan song "Angel," because "You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie" is such a fabulous line. It just is. (Arlo was originally referring to Paxton's "I Am Changing My Name To Chrysler," in case you were wondering.)
Last night I made hotdish. It was the hotdish my grandma makes, although I was skeptical. (For those of you not familiar with the term: there is some difference between a hotdish and a casserole, but we have not yet been able to figure out what it is, except that Minnesotans make hotdish, not casserole.) It had crunchy bits on the top, which Grandma's does not have. (But they were good.) And it involved mixing cream of chicken soup and mayonnaise, which may be the two smells in the world most likely to ruin my appetite. (I have cleaned up vomit from dogs and small children more times than I can count. Mayonnaise is worse for me. Really.) But it turned out tasting like Grandma's, which is the important part.
I'm not usually a hotdish kind of cook. But I'm not usually a "dark fantasy" (read: horror) kind of writer, either, and yet I wrote Butterhead. Sometimes you have to switch genres to say what you need to say. Grandma's hotdish says warm and safe and home and loved. Other things I cook say those things, too, but in different ways. Soup simmering on the stove is quite different -- it says warm, safe, homey, loved, but it's mine. It's not something people made when I was a child. Sometimes that's what I want, but sometimes....
Also, Mark was quite enthusiastic about the notion of hotdish. Sometimes Making Marks Happy is quite enough.
So. The plan for today is that I'm going to work on the Not The Moose Book and maybe on a story to submit to another anthology, if I feel like it. We're going to the grocery store (whee-hoo!) so that Timprov can make his dad's soup tonight. And I'm going to read Under My Skin some more, even though it gets "Under My Thumb" in my head by association, and that's a nasty, nasty song. But it's not Doris Lessing's fault. Oh, and I may read a story or two for my anthology. (The glee, I assure you, will wear off soon.) Tomorrow Timprov and I are planning to grab printouts and journals and head up to Au Coquelet to write. Stop in, if you're in the neighborhood.
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