#203: Midnight Rescue

Late last night, I walked into the bathroom to find Ana (the angelic evil cat of many blog pictures) sprawled on the tiles. That was nothing unusual – the odd thing was that she didn’t look up as I walked in.

I crouched down and patted her. Instead of her usual coy, “Prrm?” she mewed in pain. I’ve heard her meow in annoyance, fear, and distress (faked or otherwise) – but never like that.

CJ spotted blood matting her fur. We tried to figure out where it was coming from, but her long fur got in the way. She baulked at the attention and tried to get up and slip past us. One of her paws gave way, and she was too low to the ground to move quickly. We grabbed her as gently as possible and continued trying to see where the blood was coming from, or if any of her bones were broken. The slighest touch on her left side made her yelp.

She smelled bad. Something had terrified her so much she’d lost the contents of her bowels. Her weakened paw was stained black on top.

CJ stayed with her while I fetched the phone directory. I searched for the closest 24-hour vet while Ana lay back down with her head against the tiles. The tip of her tail twitched against the floor.

At last we found a vet and called them, describing Ana’s condition as well as we could. They told us to come over.

Normally when I take Ana somewhere I put her in a pillow case (she’s calmer when she’s contained, and can’t see how fast we’re moving). We didn’t want to move her unnecessarily, so I picked her up and CJ draped a towel over her, which I then tucked around her as well as I could.

As we took her outside and into the car, she struggled violently, burrowing through the towel, writhing, and kicking against me with her back legs. She poked her head out of the towel and that seemed to calm her, so I let her remain like that.

Recognising that I was too panicked to navigate, CJ memorised the route. As we drove, Ana barely moved. She didn’t meow at all. She  looked at nothing in eerie silence, hanging her head like a rag doll.

When we went into the vet she alternated between blank staring, and burying her nose into the crook of my elbow for comfort. Every time someone spoke or a door opened or closed, she jumped in fear.

At last the vet called us in. We put Ana on the floor and watched as she crept to hide under the vet’s chair. Her walk was low and lopsided, and she wasn’t interested in her surroundings at all.

The vet shaved some of her tail and found a large gash. She checked for a broken leg, broken ribs, and internal injuries – and everything was limited to bruises and sprains. All four of Ana’s paws had raggedly broken claws, which is an indication of an instinct to grip the road when an animal is hit by a car.

The vet gave us some antibiotics, and an opiate for her pain – warning it “Might make her a little funny.”

We came home $400 lighter. Drugs are expensive, kids – especially at night.

 Ana is jumpy (and sleepy) but otherwise okay. These photos are from just now:

Oh, and the coy “Prrm?” is back.

S#55: Make Music

Imagine the scene: You’re at school camp and have eaten the food, but you and your friends are all still at the table, nursing your orange cordials and wondering how best to mess with the teachers without leaving your chairs. Someone starts tapping out a rhythm on their upturned cup. They teach the person next to them, and so on. Eventually you have dozens of people pounding out a rhythm, passing cups all around the table.

I recreated this with some friends at my house (filmed from underneath the glass table). They described it as “strangely zen”. As you’ll probably observe during the video, there was minimal training involved. The reason I’m giggling is that the person next to me copped a cup in their lap and managed to continue.

It’s a 4-4 rhythm, and it goes something like this:

Start with a cup to your left, upside down. With your right hand, lift it (1) and place it (still upside down) in front of you (2). Hit a brief rhythm on the base (left right left – 3-and-4). Clap (1), pick it up (2) and place it (still upside down) on your right (3, and 4 is a pause). Clap (1), then grasp it sideways with your right hand (twisting your wrist so your thumb is close to the table on the near side of the cup – 2), hit the open end against your left palm (3), the bottom against the table (4), then place the bottom of the cup in your left hand – twisting your wrist a little, and switching hands (1), hit your right palm against the table to your left (2), and the upside down cup on your far right (3, and pause for four). Then repeat but using the cup that has just been placed at your left.

I definitely recommend playing along at home, but not with Mum’s best china (or her second-best glass for that matter – we used plastic cups).

And here, continuing “Killer Robot Cat” month, is my oh-so-sweet Ana killing a yellow smiley face*

*Training. . .

Coming soon: How to annoy your neighbour by accidentally making a diet coke and mentos rocket that shoots over a 2-storey building (DON’T try that at home!)

Bubbles! With your hands!

Sculpture Garden

Bad movie night (during which I thought some of my guests might turn violent – and I sympathised)

and, as always, more. . .

#202: Secret Date

Today I surprised CJ by taking him to see the Canberra Choral Society, who performed for free at the National Gallery (I told CJ we were busy at three, but not why).

Before video games, there was TV. Before TV, there was reading. Before reading, there was singing. Before singing, God was bored and had a cool idea he decided to call “the universe”.

It’s quite peculiar to think that I’m being entertained in much the same way as Adam and Eve may have entertained one another – and, since the Canberra Choral Society’s choirmaster loves African spirituals – on much the same topics.

Uh oh…guests just arrived. Seeya.

Advice for Beginning Novelists

I’ve decided to start posting writing advice whenever I feel like it. Here’s the beginning:

1. Successful writers generally make around $10,000 a year (see #2).

2. Around 1 in 10,000 slushpile manuscripts get published (at a conference recently, I discovered that a large publisher hadn’t accepted a single slushpile book in three years – and they receive hundreds every week). Meeting someone at a conference and using their name/email changes the odds to about 1 in 200. (You still need to write a brilliant and polished book – unless you’re famous, of course.) On several occasions I’ve walked up to a publisher at a conference and said exactly this: “Hi, my name’s Louise Curtis and I’d love to send my children’s adventure fantasy book to the right person at [name of that person’s company]. Could you help me?” It works every time – all they want to know is length, genre, and age group – not the fact that I had the idea in the bath or that I really like their hair. When I write to the contact person, I mention the meeting – so they can either remember me, or talk to someone who does (proof of personal hygiene is worth a lot).

3. Publishers. . .
(a) are all friends with each other, so don’t ever be rude to/about anyone.
(b) actually make a loss on 90% of the books they DO produce, so cut them some slack.
(c) usually take 3-6 months to reply to the opening chapters, and just as long again for the full book. The longest I’ve heard of is four years, and the longest I’ve experienced is 18 months (and counting).
(d) are quaintly optimistic about their response times (if they were realists, they’d quit and get a better job).
(e) are nice – but they don’t like being hassled. So wait at least three months before contacting anyone, ever – and don’t be surprised if they haven’t started reading your book yet.

(f) will not work with someone who is too lazy to read their submission instructions and/or use decent English. http://shootingthrough.net/2010/10/28/how-to-talk-english-like-more-gooder/

4. If an agent or publisher charges you money, they’re a scam.

5. Manuscript assessors are useful, especially when you’re starting out, but their recommendations of your work are worth only slightly more than the fact that your mum thought it was super good.

6. For kids and young adults, your protagonist should be a couple of years older than your target audience, and your length needs to be right (check a publisher web site for length details BEFORE you write). Your characters won’t get married or raise kids, because your readers won’t be interested in that experience (not while they’re still at the age they started reading your book, anyway). Other than that, you can do almost anything – see # 8.

7. It generally takes around 10,000 hours of focused practise to get good at writing. Most writers throw away several books before they get good enough to be published (I’ve thrown away three and rewritten three others – so far).

8. Reading books in your genre is essential. If you don’t read, why do you think anyone will read you? How do you know what your market likes?

9. If you get published, you still need to sell the book to the public. This means travelling, interviews, etc. You definitely need to rent a crowd wherever possible – the average number of participants at book readings in the USA is four.

So, in conclusion, don’t write unless you enjoy writing for its own sake.

PS Some funny posts on writers (and how unpleasant we are, mainly because of stuff outlined above) – be warned, there are naughty words and one adult joke.

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/12/beware-of-writer/

http://www.rebeccarosenblum.com/2010/10/07/why-date-a-writer/

PPS

The best way to cope with rejection is to already have another book happening (ideally a stand-alone book in case you later find out the first has fatal flaws).

Also, chocolate.

Also, writing forums.

Also, getting another job – one where you’re paid by the hour. It sounds cold, but it’s the most useful thing you can do to stay afloat psychologically (and financially).

Here’s a list of 50 well-known writers who faced plenty of rejection:

http://www.onlinecollege.org/2010/05/17/50-iconic-writers-who-were-repeatedly-rejected/

And here’s a conversation that will make you laugh, think, or both (in Australia, you don’t necessarily have to have an agent):

S#61: Wake-Up Call

In accordance with the laws of awesome, I just changed the wake-up alarm on my phone to Beethoven. Just one more way to make sure I wake up confused.

Eeeeexcellent.

On Friday I’ll be launching my steampunk twittertale “Zeppelin Jack and the Deadly Dueller”, AND Steampunk Earth Day for 30 October (similar to Earth Hour, but longer, and with better outfits).

Speaking of confusion, here’s another cute not-yet-robotic kitty:

Coming soon:

Surprise date

Bad movie night

Diet coke and mentos bombs! Yep, there’ll be video.

#50: No plans

I think you all know, at least in theoretical terms, how awesome today’s awesomeness is.

I’m not doing anything today.

I’m not going to work.

I’m not seeing anyone (unless it happens spontaneously).

I’m not doing any exercise.

I’m not even cooking dinner (I have leftovers prepped).

It’s startlingly complicated to prepare for a day of nothingness. I’m proud to have done it. Please do play along at home, if only for an hour.

Here’s some things to get you appreciating the nothingness.

This article is safe, but the blog is PG or so for mentioning unpleasant things every so often.

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/09/party.html

http://geekologie.com is just great. I dunno what the rating is – I’d guess PG or G.

For inspiration, try Donald Miller (PG for frequent Christian stuff), eg this post: http://donmilleris.com/2010/04/30/if-youre-life-were-a-movie/

Finally, the not-PG-but-generally-positive-with-a-bit-of-metalish-horror-etc Steff Metal post that’s influenced so many blog entries here (this entry is G):

http://steffmetal.com/101-ways-to-cheer-yourself-up

I also just stumbled across a rather long but interesting article on why there is Christian fantasy, but very little Jewish fantasy. It’s child-safe, and it’s here: http://www.jewishreviewofbooks.com/publications/detail/why-there-is-no-jewish-narnia

The best part is this opening paragraph, which made my day:

Although it might seem unlikely that anyone would wonder whether the author of The Lord of the Rings was Jewish, the Nazis took no chances. When the publishing firm of Ruetten & Loening was negotiating with J. R. R. Tolkien over a German translation of The Hobbit in 1938, they demanded that Tolkien provide written assurance that he was an Aryan. Tolkien chastised the publishers for “impertinent and irrelevant inquiries,” and—ever the professor of philology— lectured them on the proper meaning of the term: “As far as I am aware none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or any related dialects.” As to being Jewish, Tolkien regretted that “I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.”

Today’s geekologie robot-ish pic:

S#100: Hug someone

This one’s definitely recommended for playing along at home. Hugging and eating chocolate do have similarly relaxing results, so yay for that.

In writing terms, this week has been thrillingly exciting.

No, nothing actually happened. This is the writing life we’re talking about.

The high-octane action adventure began as I received an email from Publisher D (my shiny new contact, who just received the beginning of book 2 of my kids’ trilogy). She said she’d received it, and she’d let me know when she’d read it. She also asked where I’d published the first book (having misinterpreted something I’d said).

I wrote back and said the first book was on Publisher B’s slushpile, and had been for nine months. I added that although they were fine with me sending it elsewhere, I valued their comments and chose to wait – and besides, Publisher D had requested and rejected an earlier draft of the first book a few years ago.

She wrote back and said that she could only read the first book in a series, so she wouldn’t read anything until the first book was ready.

I took the permission she’d technically granted, and sent her the beginning of book 1. Zap! Pow!

All this happened in lightning speed during a single afternoon.

So what, kemosabe, does it all mean?

It means:

a) I’ve been given permission to resend book 1 to Publisher D (which is, I think, a better book – and of course my own natural choice for first book to reach publication) – and I’ve sent it. I won’t hear a final answer for 6-12 months.

b) Book 2 is now free for a smaller publisher – like Publisher I, who I wanted to send something to after hearing them speak in Melbourne.

c) I have an excuse to not only write to Publisher B (again), but to sound good when I do, since Publisher D did technically request it (which implies they’re the same publisher I pitched to in Brisbane, which is not at all the case since I was horribly rejected in Brisbane).

So! I took my good-sounding excuse and wrote to Publisher B (this time cc-ing the email to my original contact) – precisely one hour ago.

My original contact is on holiday, as her autobot informed me.

My usual contact just replied (yay!) and said that both books are now with independent readers for further evaluation.

This is GREAT news. It is the second-last rung of the ladder (the last rung is the aquisitions meetings). The independent reader will be fresh (a boon for two re-submitted novels), and their job is READING, which means they’ll be a whole lot faster than a publisher or editor (who often only actually have about two hours of reading time a week, since it’s not their main job).

In fact, “Stormhunter” was once “unconditionally recommended” by a freelance reader for Publisher A. My contact there (an editor) was so excited that she emailed me to let me know it was with “the aquisitions editor”. Two weeks later, I had my answer. It was a no, sadly – but the reason it was rejected was because of an unmarketable plotline which I’ve since removed.

So! It’s moved up. Progress! I’m pretty confident freelance readers will like what they see (whether they’re blown away is another matter), and I know my twittertales and blogging and so forth do help at acquisitions meetings (plus I’ve already met at least one of the people who’ll be sitting at that table – which means they know I’m not visibly deranged*).

The down side is that December is coming, and everything slows down then. I reckon I’ll hear back in either November or February/March next year – since it’s two books, next year is more likely. I won’t email again until at least January. Apart from anything else, it’s no longer in the tarry hands of my main Publisher B contact.

I’m too excited to go find a picture at present (also, I need to go to work, STAT!) but I will tell you that the story beginning on October 1 is called “Zeppelin Jack and the Deadly Dueller.” Yep, it’s steampunk time.

Still, here’s a link to a fan-made transformers movie that looked like it had robots in it (I don’t know what the rating is):

http://www.geekologie.com/2010/09/russian_fanmade_transformers_m.php

*I’ve been to writing conferences and met other writers, and believe me – writers, hobos and serial killers are indistinguishable.

S#42: Exercise

Yesterday, I went for a 1-k swim for the first time in about a month. It hurt (not the swimming, the physically getting into my swimmers part), but I did it. I’m on my way back into the healthy weight range lost to me when I decided to schmoozequest.

I wish I could figure out why chocolate is such a big deal. Why can’t CJ – or better yet, God – be the reason I get up in the morning? CJ is way nicer than chocolate.

I guess it’s the self-destruction aspect of chocolate that CJ lacks. So once again my thoughts circle and circle and end up at the dead end of mental illness.

I’m still glad to be eating healthily, despite the feeling of utter futility it brings on. Chocolate doesn’t erase the futility, it just gives a brief illusion of pleasure and/or the false anticipation of pleasure. But even the sane despair when faced with dieting. For a crazy person, I’m doing marvellously. I’m sure I weigh less (for my height) than the average Australian woman my age. Which means I still suck, but not as much as others do.

In other news, I’ve just finished re-reading “Heroes of the Valley” by Jonathan Stroud. It’s young adult adventure fantasy, and it is excellent.

There are three main elements of every story – characters, plot and theme. The two main characters in this tale are Halli and Aud. Halli is a rather stumpily-built second son of the local Arbiter, who longs to be like the mighty heroes of old, who slew the ferocious Trow and laughed at danger and death. Too bad he lives in a time of peace – and isn’t much of a fighter, either. Aud’s fate is to be married off, and she’d rather be eaten by a Trow (not that she believes they exist). She’s smart, brave, and can even appear to be well-bred when she chooses.

I won’t talk about the plot, because it’s best to just read the book. Trust me: it’s exciting and surprising. The theme is heroism – what it looks like from afar, and what it looks like up close. I was bound to love the book for the theme, if not for the excellent writing.

It’s also very, very funny – the heroic tales each chapter are not just a highlight, but part of the ongoing tale. It’s wonderfully macabre – Halli’s nurse tells him blood-chilling tales just before telling him to go to sleep, and there are hundreds of brilliant one-liners, too.

Recommended for: Anyone who can handle fairly mild horror (say, Buffy level). Especially storytellers, or people like me with a secret longing to be a hero.

Rating: PG for violence and horror violence

Speaking of horror and violence, here’s another geekologie robot pic (unfortunately, yes it IS real):

S#101: Talk to Steff

Today is Tuesday. That means Publisher B might reply. It’d sure be nice, since they have two of my books – one of which they’ve had for sixteen months. (3-6 months is a normal response time – although two other big publishers have taken 9 months just for the first few chapters – which, by the way, they rejected without requesting more and without giving comments).

For most of this year, I’ve sent a polite email to Publisher B just once every three months, and my contact person has replied within 24 hours with vague (but nonetheless useful) assurances that the books are, indeed, still under consideration. In August I emailed as usual – no response. Two weeks ago I emailed again – still no response.

Steff Metal and I originally met because of a mutual connection to Publisher B, so I wrote to her with my woes, hoping she’d have some insight. She wrote back. What follows is her response, but with chunks taken out and names changed. And I admit, I feel hugely better. This email says a whole lot about the writing life that I wish wannabe writers knew BEFORE they started writing novels (that, and the news that successful full-time writers tend to earn around $10,000 a year – non-successful writers tend to earn negative amounts).

Hiya!

Urgh – that’s a very awfully long time. I’ve never gone through [the specific person].

I think they’ve lost your email somehow, if they don’t reply. I would email after two weeks, because it’s out of their pattern and you have a history with them. Just a polite email saying you sent an email before but you don’t think they received it.

[Details of various frustrating things happening with her steampunk novel, including a very vague rejection – their advice was to write another book – and another publisher not replying to her emails.]

We haven’t been emailing much, have we! I think it’s cuz we read each other’s blogs so we kinda feel caught up. The writers conference sounds amazing. I need to go to more of those – more networking. Swooning with jealousy at all those contacts you made – you were so brave! I’m gonna start when we move to Germany – there’s huge conferences in the UK.

Why do we do this to ourselves, again?

xx

Steff

————–

And here’s a picture of my new favourite cat EVER

How much do YOU love the internet?

Ubergeeks John Scalzi and Wil Weaton have done something wonderful. This:

Other than writing stuff themselves, they had various other (in)famous people contribute, plus they ran a competition (based on the picture). Which I didn’t win.

The book itself is, technically, free. You can go read it at http://unicornpegasuskitten.com/. But since the whole point of the thing is to raise money for lupus sufferers (Wil and John paid for everything out of their own pockets), see if you can donate $5. Or maybe more.

Because sometimes, it is lupus.

However, here’s the story I wrote. All things being equal, the stories from the book are better than this. So go click on the link and enjoy.

“Kitten Spit”

I woke as my face was scraped raw by warm sandpaper coated in slime. Something monstrous had found me, and its spit dissolved my skin. I opened my eyes to a view of needle-sharp teeth, and gagged at the stench of salmon as the thing yawned.

     “Good kitty,” I croaked.

     It was taller than me, even without the wings spreading from its shoulders. Since my cave had a prudently small opening, only its head could fit inside – if it angled itself so the horn on its forehead didn’t scrape the roof. I scrambled back before it could lick me a second time. Blood dripped down my neck. I healed myself by magic before the thing attacked again.

“Where did you come from?” I said aloud.

     “Well,” came a voice from outside, “when a unicorn and a pegasus and a cat all love each other very much –”

     “No I meant—oh actually, that does answer one question. May I ask who you both are, and what you and your – er, noble steed – are doing here?”

     “Are you the orc magician?” The voice was curiously flat, as if the man was mortally exhausted.

     My heart sank. Even among other magicians, that question always led to an awkward conversation followed by an even more irritating battle. I had thought living on an active volcano would discourage further inquiry. “Just because I have green skin, pointy ears, and incredibly well-developed muscles doesn’t mean I’m going to kill you.” Under my breath I added, “Like all the others.”

     The kitten retreated as someone tugged on its reins. Not for the first time, I was glad I slept in full armor.

A human stood by the lava river outside my cave. Other than his sweater, he was unarmed.

     I took an involuntary step backward and hit stone. “That’s –”

     “Yes,” he said, looking away. “The clown sweater. I need you to kill me.”

     I looked at his young face and saw the deep worry lines of a man possessed by the most diabolical fiend of our time. “But. . . you’re immune. And besides, we’ve just met.”

     “I’m Wil.”

     “John. But –”

     “I’m not immune.”

     “Then how?”

     “Sometimes, it sleeps.”

     “Can you take it off?” I asked. “Can someone take it off you?”

 His eyes glittered, but he held himself together.  “I used to have three brothers.”

     “Ah. So I’m dead then.”

     “No! Kill me first and save your life. And she’s not a monster. She’s Petunia, and she just likes to play.” He pulled down a golden spear from her back. “Take it!”

     “Don’t make me do this. Killing people is so. . .”

     All colour fled his face, silencing me. “It’s waking up. The clown. It’s coming! Help me!” I saw his eyes turn mad just before he leapt onto Petunia’s back. He lifted the spear and smiled the serene smile of the deranged.

The awkward-conversation part of our friendship was at an end.

     I grabbed my axe and shield and ran outside. Wil seemed decent. The least I could do was sever his head from his body.

     Petunia leapt into the air and bore down on me with her claws splayed. Magic filled me, sparking from my fingertips. I jumped straight into Wil and we both tumbled to the rocks. Petunia crouched to watch us, switching her horse’s tail from side to side in excitement.

     “Unicorns,” I thought frantically, searching for a weakness. “Good for looking picturesque with virgins. Not helpful right at the moment.”

     Wil leapt at me, drooling with fury. I parried and his spear clashed against my armored shoulder.

     “Pegasuses,” I thought. “Pegasi? Good for traveling long distances fast. But flighty.”

     Petunia’s eyes glowed with mad kitten joy. Her pupils darkened and she waggled her rear end, ready to spring.

     Wil spun with impossible speed and I ducked just in time. His foot connected with my head, but I magically dismissed the bright stars of concussion before they got me killed.

     “Kittens,” I thought. “Nice to look at, if you like that sort of thing. Attracted to shiny things. Also a source of pure, unadulterated evil.” I blinked, and knew what to do.

Luckily for us, Petunia was already in the mood to play.

     Wil lunged for my throat and I didn’t have time to dodge naturally. My magical defenses shot me fifty feet into the air. I had time to look down as I fell, curious to see if gravity would get a chance to kill me before the rest. Or perhaps I’d think of some further magical brilliance. Either way, I looked forward to finding out what happened next.

     Petunia sprang at me. She batted me sideways in mid-air, knocking me into my cave. I landed on nice soft armor and watched with quiet surprise as magical sparks healed my broken legs. With one hand, I pointed to Wil. Pretty blue sparks danced an irresistible pattern on the clown’s red nose.

Petunia took the bait. She pounced and pinned Wil to the rock with one paw, biting into his sparkly chest as he screamed in pain and rage.

She spat something white and red and grinning into the lava river, where it dissolved. Then she sat on Wil’s legs and licked the hole that used to be his chest.

I staggered outside, dragging up what magic I had to try and heal him. Sparks flew off me into him, building new organs, growing new skin, and filling him with new blood.

It was no use. Petunia’s saliva ate through him faster than I could build him back

Wil didn’t move.

“The sweater is dead,” I said, falling on my knees beside him. “Long live the sweater.”

Petunia yawned emphatically and touched him with the tip of her horn. “Unicorns,” I thought. “Handy for fixing poison. Does that include kitten spit?”

THE END

PS This piece of awesomeness comes free of charge. Your regular schedule of Daily Awesomeness will continue tomorrow.

PPS Please do spread the word about this book. If you’ve ever had a disease of the immune system or known someone who has, you’ll understand why.

#103: Hug the Internet

If I ever want to REALLY waste time, there are two places I love – tvtropes and cracked.

Warning: NOT suitable for children (but probably okay for most young adults – a lot of very unpleasant things get mentioned, especially on cracked, and some rather MA stuff is shown on occassion).

Warning: You will be sucked into a never-ending vortex of informative hilarity.

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AirplaneOfLove

http://www.cracked.com/article_18645_6-great-novels-that-were-hated-in-their-time.html?wa_user1=4&wa_user2=Weird+World&wa_user3=article&wa_user4=moreon

http://www.cracked.com/article_18611_the-10-most-important-things-they-didnt-teach-you-in-school.html?wa_user1=1&wa_user2=Weird+World&wa_user3=article&wa_user4=moreon

And from geekologie.com (which I highly recommend), another killer robot:

S#91: Signature Cocktail

“Pull all the liquor bottles out of your cabinet and line them up on the bench. Now, go to the fridge and pull out all the liquids and fruits. Do the same with the pantry. Now, line up all your shot glasses and start mixing! You’re searching for the perfect signature cocktail. This involves lots of taste-testing. Be daring, be crazy. Give your drinks a wacky name.” -steffmetal.com

Here’s what I found:

Alcohol: Cask cooking wine (red), butterscotch schnapps, blue curacao, and a rather strong ginger dessert wine.

Mixers: Milk, lemonade, diet coke.

Good ideas: Lemon juice, vanilla essence, honey, cinnamon, nutmeg.

Bad ideas: Custard powder, sweet soy sauce, glucose syrup, 3/4 dodgy banana from several days ago.

I screwed my courage to the sticking-place and started with the red wine – mostly because I don’t like it.

Step one: Taste wine. Result: Still don’t like it.

Step two: Add butterscotch schnapps. Result: instant stomach cramps.

Pause.

Step three: Add lemon juice. Result: Coughing, sticking out of tongue as if to scrape off the taste.

Pause.

Step four: Carefully heat glucose syrup (the stickiest substance known to man) in a small dish until it’s actually a liquid.

Pause.

Sigh.

Step five: Realise putting glucose syrup in the delicate wine glass will almost certainly result in destruction (or glucose highlights to every future drink from that glass). Instead, as the glucose re-thickens (highly reminiscent of the Terminator, fyi), pour the wine over it and mix as well as can be hoped.

Sigh. Roll eyes. Wrap the resulting mixture around the end of a spoon and eat it.

Result: Very like a sour lolly with 90% of the flavour surgically removed.

Conclusion: I don’t drink. . . wine.

Name of creation: Savignon Blerg.

After a brief recovery period, I moved on and blended together the banana, milk, custard powder, and more schnapps – with a sprinkling of nutmeg on top. It was like drinking a banana milkshake, eating a butterscotch lolly, and enjoying a flour-top bun, all in one harmonious mouthful (it’s the raw custard powder that gives it the sense of a flour-top bun).

Conclusion: This was a win.

Name: Naughty Picnic.

I moved on to my next adventure, which I’d already named “Black and Blue”. See what I mean?

Step one: Try some blue curacao. Result: It tastes of blue. Like really, REALLY blue. Sweet and fake as a girl you pay to be your friend.

Step two: Feeling tender, you add vanilla next. Vanilla goes with everything, right? Result: Wrong. So very wrong. One extra iota of sweetness was more than Miss Blue could handle. I like sugar, really I do, but this tasted like sugar after it had been thrown up for being too sugary.

Step three: Hastily add coke. Coke will make it better. It has to. Result: It did. Who knew? Coke – especially diet coke – has such powers of disgustingness that it can absorb almost anything. Bizarelly, I think it tasted better with blue curacao and vanilla essence in it, as if they filled in the blanks taken out when it became a diet drink. Odd.

Ah, if only the tale ended here.

Step four: Add sweet soy sauce. Result: The drink suddenly has a meatiness to it, as if it wasn’t quite solid before. The soy sauce, while adding to the cloying sweetness, gives the drink a dark and brooding presence, much like Sauron’s enormous burning eye in Mordor. . . watching. Waiting. Killing.

In this metaphor, the vanilla essence represents the friendship of the fellowship (the one small good thing), the blue curacao represents the false/fragile goodness of the parts of Middle Earth where the killing hasn’t started yet, and the diet coke represents Sauron’s power – omnipresent, all-consuming, and Just Not Right.

Finally, I moved on to arguably the riskiest endeavour of the night: the ginger wine.

Step one: Gird loids.

Step two: Taste ginger wine.

Step three: Feel manly for not coughing this time. Congratulate self. Wish CJ had been in the room to see.

Move on.

Step four: Heat honey in microwave until it’s very runny. Mix with the ginger wine. Result: Just like that, the sucker punch of the ginger wine appears to be neutralised. It’s more like those lemon and honey concoctions grandma made when you had a cold. Realise you put in too much honey. Move on.

Step five: Add lemonade. Result:

Pause.

Step six: Sip it again. And again. And a bigger sip.

Pause.

Smile.

The darn thing’s delicious! It’s like ginger beer! The experiment has yielded a positive result!

Yay for ginger winebeer. I have a friend called Lee, so I named it Ginger Lee in her honour.

Step seven: Sprinkle cinnamon on top. Result: Meh. Better without, but it’s still delicious.

Step eight: Call CJ. Smile ominously as he tries everything. Smile proudly as he enjoys the Naughty Picnic and Ginger Lee.

Conclusion: Win and win.

I apologised for putting too much honey in the Ginger Lee.

“It IS like ginger beer,” he said happily. “Made by bees.”

I put more wine and lemonade in it, and he drank some more, but said he really liked the honeyer version. Then he discovered more honey in the bottom of the glass.

In more ominous news, I saw “Predators” last night (I say “saw” – in reality I watched perhaps half of it, and had whispered conversations with CJ about what was going on the rest of the time). It was quite stressful, and I was quietly impressed.

Then I came home, and it was night, and I had to take the rubbish out.

I moved the wheelie bin near our front door for easy access, glad that we recently replaced the sensor light out the front.

I went and gathered all the rubbish.

I opened the front door – and RIGHT THERE BEFORE ME was an animal face looking at me from pure darkness; pure black pupils and white fur and silence.

Darn cat sat on the darn wheelie bin waiting for me until the darn sensor light turned itself off. (But WHY?!?!)

And with that thought, here’s today’s killer robot, and yes it really is from geekologie.com (a site I now love – go look at them and you’ll see why):

S#34: Krieg up your wallet

It was steffmetal.com that inspired the project of awesomeness you see before you. Which is interesting, since Steff Metal is primarily a heavy metal blog, and this. . . isn’t.

However.

Here we are.

To this day, I’m not entirely sure what krieg is. (Perhaps, given my musical taste, that’s the point.) But I have a notion Tim Burton is krieg.

So here’s my new wallet (and some daisies. Are daisies krieg?)

And here, celebrating another day in the life of everyone’s favourite killer robot cat, is something from geekologie (I think – I really should check that), that is krieg, brOOtal, and trOO):

Maybe being krieg has more going for it than I realised.

“Killer Robot Cat” story so far

1

My new cat Fi finally arrived. It’s amazingly cute and fluffy considering how long it took me and the house PC to put together.

Fi has a bell (even though it’s programmed not to hunt), so when it fell down the stairs just now I heard, “Tinkle, thump, fizz.” All good.

Fi fetched a piece of junk mail for me. Good kitty! My phobias prevent me leaving the house, but it’s okay now my house is so high-tech.

2

I woke up last night to see two glowing red eyes. Fi must have thought I was ill, since she was pawing at my face like she was concerned.

Just think – if I’d stopped breathing, Fi would have known right away! How reassuring. As soon as I woke up she went and ate her din-dins.

3

I started wearing Fi around my neck as a white and tortoiseshell scarf with my yellow dress. It nibbled on my neck and purred. How cute!

More junk mail, so Fi went again. I always feel sure that a horrid monster will jump out at me if I walk to the box. Silly, right?

4

My postie, Bec, brought this week’s personalised mail over – she knows about my condition. Fi wound around her legs and almost tripped her.

Bec scowled: “I don’t like cats.” “It’s not a real one – it’s a robot. It’s so realistic it even eats meat!” “I don’t like robots, either.”

5

I laughed as Fi stalked a magpie outside. Then she climbed the tree and ate three baby birds. I ran to switch her off. My PC said, “No.”

I yelled, “What do you mean? Switch off the cat – it’s malfunctioning.” “You’re not well,” my PC said, “and the cat and I are here to help.”

OK. My cat is a killer and my house is a patronising git. I swear there was an override program somewhere. In a minute, I’ll remember where.

6 – SWITCH twitter and facebook!!!

Logged on to twitter with my USB and found out the house had posted a death notice for me. Oh, that can’t be good. But facebook is still OK.

7

Woke up with two fluffy paws across my mouth and nose. I punched the cat across the room and it didn’t stop for a second. It wants me dead!

I grabbed a shoelace and dangled it until Fi’s cute files took over and she batted at it. When she rolled on her back to play, I ran.

I’m in the bathroom. The electronic lock refused to work, so I wedged a chair against the knob. All I have is my laptop and USB modem.

8

Every so often Fi walks past (tinkle tinkle) and scratches at the door with her reinforced-steel claws. I know my days are numbered.

It’s just toying with me, like a cat playing with its. . . oh. Its food. Robot cats still enjoy feasting on the flesh of their victims.

9

I had an idea, and turned on all the taps. Perched on the toilet, I called, “Here, Kitty Kitty Kitty. Come see what I’m doing.”

Fi didn’t respond. I found an email in my inbox: “We’re not stupid, meatwad. Love, your automated home care centre.”

I left the taps on, hoping. But after three hours, I slipped and fell. With all the electronics around, the shock knocked me out.

10

I awoke sopping wet, with a badly burnt foot. The PC had been kind enough to cut off my water supply. Good, but uh-oh. I needed food, too.

I heard purring, and was almost certain it was the soporific purr of Fi in napping mode. So I crept from the bathroom to the kitchen.

I grabbed as much food and water as I could, then tiptoed back. Suddenly my PC turned my ipod on. I ran. Fi smacked into the door behind me.

11

I saw Bec pause at the mailbox as usual. She always glanced at the house as she put my mail in, daring me to get it myself before Saturday.

This time she didn’t look up. She put a large parcel in the box and rode off without a wave.

Bec knew – and she’d given me something. All I had to do was get it. I began to shake just thinking about it. Plus I’d have to get past Fi.

12

Bec dropped a postcard at my mailbox. I noticed the back of her bike was empty of mail. She was ready for me to leave the house – to flee.

I didn’t go. It wasn’t even the fear that stopped me. I was mad. My cat and computer had taken MY house, and I was going to take them down.

13

I waited until I heard Fi’s sleeping purr. She couldn’t change her programming – but I could change mine. I climbed out the window.

The grass tickled my feet and I almost laughed aloud. It was strangely comforting to know that a monster really could leap out at me.

I got the parcel and crept back, squeezing through the window. Take that, robots! Then I hyperventilated until I passed out.

14

Still shaking. I hoped the box could tell me how to shut down Fi and my home PC network. It didn’t feel like books, though. And it sloshed.

I ate raw two-minute noodles and beef jerky. Fortified by my meal, I opened my parcel. It was matches. And petrol. Lots of petrol.

15

I woke up smiling, and it took me a moment to realise why – robots can’t smell. Suddenly I wasn’t shaking any more.

I spent all day planning how to burn down my house. I soaked toilet paper in petrol, and soaked that into the walls.

Fi scratched on the door without stopping. She wasn’t playing any more.

16

I saw the crack in the bathroom door the instant I woke up. Time was running out. Fi was purring loudly, watching me as she clawed the door.

I poured petrol on Fi’s head. She shook herself, and almost bit off my finger. I just hoped she didn’t wash herself like other cats.

[much later]

The door broke. I kicked Fi against the wall and ran, making for the living room. We charged around the living room, kitchen, and hall.

17

I stomped and kicked and hurled myself away from Fi’s snapping jaws, growing more exhausted each hour. My strength faded fast.

Fi collapsed. One of her eyes blinked red, and I realised she was low on battery. She was wireless, so I didn’t have long.

I barricaded myself in my bedroom as my ipod played reproachful country and western. When the door was wedged tightly, I collapsed.

#200: Documentary

I’m still working my way through Ben’s suggestions of awesomeness. I’ve chosen to interpret this one as requiring any visual media – not necessarily film. So I have created the following two pictures, which I call: “The Writing Life”. It really tells you everything about my daily life.

1. Morning.

2. Afternoon/Evening.

In other news, I’m almost ready to send “The Princess and the Pirate” to Publisher D, which means I have no urgent writing to do (I estimate they’ll give their final yes or no in 6-12 months, given I’m only sending the first chapters). My only polished book not on someone’s desk is “Farting My ABCs” and the publisher I want – H – is currently closed to submissions. So I can slack off now, if I want to.

It’s been almost two weeks since I arrived back from the recent schmoozefests, so I’m pretty well recovered. From tomorrow, I’ll be eating properly again. It’s good timing in terms of my womanly cycle, how much stuff is happening with work and family and friends (ie not much), and my writing (I write MUCH less without chocolate). I’ll be visiting my extremely pregnant sister in early October, so that’ll ruin everything, but fluctuating weight is better than a continuing increase.

I rarely get nightmares from my writing (one reason I don’t write much horror). But I had one the other night about a giant Japanese robot spider. Then Ben sent me this, from http://xeai.com/public/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/l08_5072.jpg

#40: Steal Flowers

If there’s anything this blog has taught me, it’s that crime is awesome*. Technically, this item on my pre-existing list read “pick flowers” but since I own exactly 0 flowers at present (some of my plants are dead, and some. . . sleeping), I chose theft once more.

I’m still recovering from schmoozing in Melbourne and Brisbane, and I’m still physically recovering from Indonesia in January (and a vitamin D deficiency). It’s reasonably difficult to get up in the morning, or be enthusiastic about. . . well, anything.

And this is where crime comes in. I stole these flowers from five different locations (my friend Ann may find the daffodils eerily familiar, but the other victims of my crime spree were all neighbours and/or strangers), generally leaving my car running to assist in the fastest possible getaway. I inadvertently collected several ants (both large and small) in my guilty haste, but since none bit me and the fuzz hasn’t come a-knocking, I feel I can confidently declare that crime pays.

And, it’s fun.

My heart rate is up, my house is all pretty (I put some in every single room), and a smile is tugging at my lips.

In other news, I took these two photos of my cat Ana spying on our neighbours (neither was posed, and the look in the second picture was a response to my picture-taking – after which she went back to work. . . watching. . .). I also had a nightmare about a killer robot last night. That was odd.

I call this second one, “Here’s looking at you, meatwad.”

*There’s been fountain frolicking, herb hustling, and guerrilla gardening thus far.

S#40 and #82 – Silly hats for the deaf

s#40 is to learn sign language.

#82 is to wear a silly hat.

There are a lot of different sign languages, so I learnt the Australian sign alphabet. The vowels are the easiest – you just touch your right index finger to each finger of your left hand – “A” is the thumb, “E” is the index finger, and so on.

Play along at home: If your name is Ioueueoa, you already know how to say your name! Great work!

You’ve seen this silly hat before, but I think this is the last time I’ll wear it this year. I was invited to a picnic by an optimist (you can tell they’re an optimist, because they invited me to a picnic in Canberra in September). The weather was like this:

There was also an icy wind.

Now, my beanie is famous on three continents, but on this particular day I was outdone by a sheep/monkey suit, as you can see:

Kids these days.

And here’s today’s killer robot, from (I think) geekologie:

There’s more writing stuff today and tomorrow at http://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com.

#75: Leave lights/heater on

My “study” is located in the corner of our (large) living room. In Summer or Winter, I try to take my laptop to our (much smaller) bedroom to save on heating and cooling. Yesterday I glanced over my entire 66,000 word realist novel (in case Publisher K requests it this week, which is fairly likely), and as a treat I stayed at my usual desk and turned the big heater on.

It was niiiice.

Here’s a short story, since my exuberant heater use doesn’t make an especially thrilling blog entry. (Writing tips are a-happening today and tomorrow at http://felicitybloomfield.wordpress.com if you’re into that sort of thing.)

“Why stars are the way they are”

Missy Myway was the sweetest of the starlets, and her soul was as great as the ocean. Fans were charmed when she wore bunny slippers to her first award ceremony, peeking out from under a designer gown. Her face was as expressive as her music, grinning as her blonde hair fell across one eye, or sweetly calling attention to the successes of her favourite charities. People called her the girl of a thousand smiles.

Her only foible was that she did not like having her picture taken. It was a phobia based on the beliefs of certain third-world cultures that cameras could steal a person’s soul. She sat for painted portraits each day, and passed them out to photographers as gifts, hoping to discourage their professional enthusiasm. They merely photographed her handing out the pictures.

Even as she retreated back into restaurants or behind gates, her sharpest rebuke was to say, ‘I don’t want my photo taken, you drip.’ Young girls began using the word ‘drip’ as hip new slang referring to anyone wielding a camera.

Missy and her high school sweetheart were married. The drips were greeted cordially by Missy’s manager, and invited to leave their cameras at the door and enter. The ceremony was performed in the backyard of Missy’s childhood home. Most of the town attended, but they were still outnumbered by photographers, twitching frustrated fingers as Missy sparkled like never before.

As Missy and her husband were permitted by reverent order to kiss, cameras appeared from under seats and inside handbags. The flashes pierced her closed eyes. She broke the kiss and stared around as if caught in a deadly trap. That iconic look of interrupted innocence appeared on the cover of no less than three major magazines within the week.

Something changed in the press that day. They followed Missy in taxis and unmarked vans, taking pictures of her at the beach, with family, and through the windows of her home. Photos appeared of her getting drunk as she sought anonymity by any means. Soon there were pictures of her fighting with her husband, and both of them trying new and harder drugs. A photo of Missy with another man made the photographer’s career. The man went on to star in a hit reality show. Even in the sealed courtroom, as Missy wrangled with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, someone managed to secretly take photo after photo after photo.

As Missy left the courtroom a hoard of paparazzi caught her on the steps in a blaze of light. She shrieked and swore and swung at the nearest. The drip grabbed at her, and snagged a handful of fabric.

‘You want some?’ she shrilled. ‘Take it!’ She tore at the shirt, bursting the buttons, and threw it in his delighted face. Her bra followed, and the respectable skirt she’d worn to court. Famous undies matched the bra on the ground. The flashes were like an electric storm. Missy shielded, not her face or her nakedness, but somewhere near her heart. Soon there was nothing left to take.

Missy Myway was the sweetest of the starlets, and her soul was as great as the ocean. Even the ocean can be emptied, drip by drip.

THE END

And, today’s killer robot (from geekologie, I think):