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I need an angry Trent icon

I may be on the news tonight for murdering my neighbours.

Who the hell has a loud drunken karaoke party till the wee hours in the middle of the week?

I mean, it’s bad enough I had to listen to your shitty taste in music, evil neighbours, but none of you can sing. I sing better than that and I’m tone deaf. Right now I feel like Trent Reznor when he’s pulling his angry-at-the-whole-world-and-everyone-must-die face

Also, my child agrees, seeing as how she spent the whole night unable to sleep and screaming in obvious pain at the torture inflicted on her sensitive little ears. I’ll be sending my hitman around and he’ll be taking out your whole family and your yappy dog too. And then I’m going to burn your karaoke machine in the street while chanting to all the demonic forces that Hell can spare.

Need to get into writing space now, despite the fact that my head feels like it’s on backwards.

Actually, I got lots of thoughts and images coming to me last night regarding hob an lam, so I think I have some work to do now, if I can just bring myself to open the document without crying. (Yes, I have this internal struggle every morning, where I ask myself why I keep on keeping on despite the evidence that I really should just go and get some crappy job somewhere on minimum wage. Some days my sheer lack of shit-giving is the only thing that gets me to put the next word down.)

Luckily I dug up this essay because of something posted, and it kinda made my day – Shitty First Drafts

Hello little book, where have you been hiding?

Today’s being a stupid day.

Went to go pay Hellskum (yep, we forgot) and I couldn’t because I somehow have not got the important piece of the seven page bill that has the exact arrangement of magic numbers needed to allow bill-payment. Of course, I only discovered this after standing in a queue for twenty minutes.

Got home to try write, and kids are driving me up the freaking wall. I want to get them cages, or tiny infant-sized iron-maidens. I’m not fussy.

After much dithering, I finally managed to get 2020 words down on hob an lam, which is limping along. People are swearing at each other. A lot. Which I guess counts towards tension. Still, today’s wordage brings us to 37 646, which means progress is being made. Middles are such pains.

Seeing as how we’re already about a third of the way through January I decided to carry on querying Dream And Bone. Which I realise is never going to sell. Woe is me and all that shit.

Anyway, deep breath now, because Black Wings has been composting, so today I am about to plunge headlong into the murky depths and try to find the plot. I want to have this ready to go to betas by the end of Jan. Scary scary.

Whee! Made Skype work and got to chat to Kat in Canberra. Awesomeness indeed.

Eek! first pass through first chapter is now down. Slave caught some timing errors, but that’s all that really stuck out. The sentences are a bit choppy, but that’s Irene’s voice.

I dunno if there’s anyone who wants to do a chapter by chapter beta? Uh, just let me know if you’re a willing test subject.

In the meantime, I will reward myself with a biscuit.

ETA: people willing to suffer for my art can contact me at catshortridge at gmail dot com

Thanks guys.

Move along, just a writing info dump

hob an lam stuff:

words for the day: 3893 words (hopefully that makes up a bit for the patheticness of yesterday)

total count: 35 600

bit I liked: IsidroWray comes to me, kneels down and makes me look at him. ~Are you telling the truth, little wray?~

No answer, because they do not want to listen. I saw mama’s face crumble, I saw her drying up like a twist of burnt paper, taking my death deep into her. They do not want to hear this.

Sorry about that static earlier.

I really need to learn to not post when I’m down. Thanks for the hugs and well-wishes guys, you rock.

And Cat rocks too. Cat is, in fact, rocking the Elvis quiff today. I’m in a much better mood, thanks to the healing power that is the Izzard. You can’t watch an executive tranny ranting on about nazi fuckheads and the cunning use of flags, and stay in a crap mood.

Fantasy Online have put This Reflection Of Me up on their site as a teaser for Jabberwocky 3, so go forth and stuff. (Thanks for the heads-up.)

And now I think I’ll get dressed and and brush the teeth and primp the quiff and write the words.


Who sees the interiors like young Willem once did

Feeling down and out of sorts today.

My contributors copies of Jabberwocky 3 arrived today (that was cool,not depressing) but I’m obviously on the downward swing of the depression circle. I went digging through my cds for The Holy Bible, and I can’t find it anywhere. Also can’t find This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours, so I’m listening to Everything Must Go.

Dunno why I feel so floored – book is crap and broken, I managed 700 words and realised the entire thing is a steaming pile of shit (from the Devil’s own satanic herds)

Feel the guilt of a sinner

Sometimes I really hate having kids.

I am a cactus?

A bunch of things:

I never realised America had a rectangular state. I’m baffled as to how something like that happens. Colorado, please to be explaining this?

The Fix reviews Jabberwocky 3, and calls This Reflection Of Me disturbing. Oh all right then. Yay me!

I’m rereading The Neverending Story (because I can) and this bit made me happy inside

He didn’t like books in which dull, cranky writers describe humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people. Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he want to read about it? Besides, he couldn’t stand it when a writer tried to convince him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were always trying to do just that.

That’s why, in a nutshell, cat likes to write fantastical things. Amen.

It is raining.

Today, six years ago, is when I was approached in Crazy Cats by a rather crazy cat, who I ended up marrying. He asked me if I could read, and it was offence at first chat. *waves at *

Welcome to my world of paranoia

I stay at home with my two kids, and in-between laundry I try to write (generally I break it up into four periods of 500 words – doesn’t always happen).

One of the things that makes me panic is when strangers knock on my gate. I can easily see who is there from my window, and if it’s no-one I recognise, or I’m not expecting a delivery, I WILL NOT OPEN. So, mr man, rapping endlessly and then walking along my property boundary peering over the walls to see if I’m in and hollering at me is not going to make me leap up and open the door.

Now, he’s probably just some guy looking for construction work (he’s wearing a blue uniform-thingy) but I’m still not letting strangers onto my property. You must think I’m mental if you believe that me, an unarmed woman with two small kids, is going to let ANY unknown person in.

Oh he’s gone.


A small goal reached

In most awesome news: Tanith has finally slept through the night.

I can has party now?

Whew, I’ve finished the first part of hob an lam, minus a few scenes I don’t feel ready to face. It’s currently sitting at 27 000 words. So around a third of the way through the first draft.

Part One ends on these lines

Of course, we can’t see the Mekekana’s ships from here, but scouts have ridden out into the deep desert and taken flashes. An emergency three leaf paper – quickly and shoddily printed – is already making the rounds, and I see one briefly before handing it on. The ships with their thousands of reticulated legs are reproduced in grainy black and white, fuzzy and indistinct.

The ink leaves smudges on my fingers and thumb.

Still another 1300-odd words to write today. I’ll get there.

Email hell

I’m not winning here with the email thing.

My telkom account seems to be very dodge and I received so few responses to queries that I was beginning to suspect that there was something amiss. Now, I know a non-response to a query is agent-speak for no thanks, but the percentage of non-responses was higher than other people have mentioned – in other words, I’m getting the silent treatment from agents who have sent other people form rejections, and that makes me wonder.

So I decided to start sending from my gmail account instead. And today I see that Fantasy Magazine has sifted through their December subs and rejected all of them, basically. Which means my story was a no thanks, and I can’t find a rejection email. *sigh* I’ve checked my spam folder in case – nothing. This is making me very depressed (not the rejection – the missing emails.) How many times have I been considered rude because I haven’t responded to something, and meanwhile, I never actually received it.

It’s driving me up the wall, and I have no idea how to actually deal with it. I mean, sending out mass emails asking “did you get my previous email?” is a beyond stupid.

Oh, if anyone is reading on beyond this little rant – I had an awesome New Years. Hope you did too.