Mowgli has experienced Star-Crossed First Love now. In the Wal-Mart yesterday, checking out balls and things with wheels, he found a Lightning McQueen and a Mater, just shy of shoe-box sized and rated for rather older children, and fell in love.
However, I'd been more in the frame of mind to spend maybe three bucks on a ball or a wheeled turtle, and furthermore it was time to go home for lunch and dog care. I insisted that he could have one minute, counted it down, and put away the Cars cars.
He was heartbroken, of course, and also hungry enough to really pitch a fit. Ah, first love, always the toughest. I told him I completely understood how he felt, but that it wasn't going to change anything. He pitched more fit. I did buy him a squeeze-pack of applesauce, which improved things somewhat. I did wash an apricot for him (he'd already given it a nip in the produce area) once it was paid for, and that too went a long way toward cheering him up.
I'm not sure how long a child's memory lasts at this age, but suspect we will find out very soon. I missed a couple of necessities at the store, and we'll have to go back.
Showing posts with label development. Show all posts
Showing posts with label development. Show all posts
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Monday, June 28, 2010
A House Divided
I'm trying to complete rewrites on my Science In My Fiction entry. I am also trying to keep little Mowgli under some control or at least observation. He's determined to crawl after the dogs, the cat, and any fancy that strikes him. I'm determined to produce a good story.
The story, however, is nearly as recalcitrant as the baby. Half of it is now in past tense, half in present, with switches in mid-paragraph. Since new sentences tend to be in present, I'm trying out the whole story that way; if it stinks, I'll try all-past. Plotwise, it's almost where I want it but I can't seem to see what it needs when the file is open, only when it is closed -- and then when I look for where to put the new bits, there's no such place.
The story is also supposed to have links to new scientific events which have inspired it. There are plenty of those, as I am something of a science nerd, but the roots go deeper than that. When I was eight, I was torn between becoming a veterinarian or a meteorologist (yes, always something of a science nerd). Or, of course, maybe a writer. This story has some of both of those, back when I was blissfully unaware of all the dreadful things vets sometimes have to do, back when climate change was a rumor instead of something every yahoo what's had a drop of rain fall on his head has an opinion about. At least when someone ventures an opinion on some story of mine, I can be confident they've probably read some other ones by other people as well.
Maybe that's why this story is turning out to be difficult. It requires research, but most of my stories either require it or come from it spontaneously. It's in a new voice, but what fun is a story in the same old one? But it also comes more from my own past and present than most, and is at the same time about the end of the world. This is a most uncomfortable literary apocalypse, then.
But enough grumbling. I must go recover the baby from the next room before he does something dreadful.
The story, however, is nearly as recalcitrant as the baby. Half of it is now in past tense, half in present, with switches in mid-paragraph. Since new sentences tend to be in present, I'm trying out the whole story that way; if it stinks, I'll try all-past. Plotwise, it's almost where I want it but I can't seem to see what it needs when the file is open, only when it is closed -- and then when I look for where to put the new bits, there's no such place.
The story is also supposed to have links to new scientific events which have inspired it. There are plenty of those, as I am something of a science nerd, but the roots go deeper than that. When I was eight, I was torn between becoming a veterinarian or a meteorologist (yes, always something of a science nerd). Or, of course, maybe a writer. This story has some of both of those, back when I was blissfully unaware of all the dreadful things vets sometimes have to do, back when climate change was a rumor instead of something every yahoo what's had a drop of rain fall on his head has an opinion about. At least when someone ventures an opinion on some story of mine, I can be confident they've probably read some other ones by other people as well.
Maybe that's why this story is turning out to be difficult. It requires research, but most of my stories either require it or come from it spontaneously. It's in a new voice, but what fun is a story in the same old one? But it also comes more from my own past and present than most, and is at the same time about the end of the world. This is a most uncomfortable literary apocalypse, then.
But enough grumbling. I must go recover the baby from the next room before he does something dreadful.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Where Have I Been?
It's been a busy couple of weeks. Shadowfire Press picked up a set of stories I've been working on for some time, and the first will be coming out May 21. For those of you looking at your calendars, yes, that is SOON. Half-Sick of Shadows will be available in ebook format, and soon after, perhaps, the rest.
This means that for the last few days I've been working on art request forms, taglines, and the like. For whatever reason, a fifteen-word tagline is much harder to write than an 18,000 word story. It comes off cryptic, or inadequate, or dull, or too much like a fortune cookie. The author bio is even worse, or at least it is if you've lived a writer's life: baking bagels, training dogs and shoveling kennels, flipping burgers, adjunct teaching, periodicals checkin at the library, and so on. I tend to think that a bit of variety feeds the muse. The muse may, at this point, get indigestion.
The little fellow is fine, though. He wallows around on (and off) a blanket on the floor, attempts to eat my laptop, swats at keys, and generally makes himself helpful. He's getting interested in Cheerios now, though has not yet worked out the art of putting them in his mouth himself. He'll eat them from my fingers. He's grabbing at them happily. The bridge will eventually connect here to there. I'm now finding that babies are crawling into all my short story efforts.
This means that for the last few days I've been working on art request forms, taglines, and the like. For whatever reason, a fifteen-word tagline is much harder to write than an 18,000 word story. It comes off cryptic, or inadequate, or dull, or too much like a fortune cookie. The author bio is even worse, or at least it is if you've lived a writer's life: baking bagels, training dogs and shoveling kennels, flipping burgers, adjunct teaching, periodicals checkin at the library, and so on. I tend to think that a bit of variety feeds the muse. The muse may, at this point, get indigestion.
The little fellow is fine, though. He wallows around on (and off) a blanket on the floor, attempts to eat my laptop, swats at keys, and generally makes himself helpful. He's getting interested in Cheerios now, though has not yet worked out the art of putting them in his mouth himself. He'll eat them from my fingers. He's grabbing at them happily. The bridge will eventually connect here to there. I'm now finding that babies are crawling into all my short story efforts.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Yellow
According to the baby books, a little fellow of Mowgli's age usually prefers red and blue to all other colors. Not this baby -- he likes yellow. In his Dr. Seuss book, he likes the yellow busy buzzy bees. Yesterday with his toes in the grass, he grabbed up a dandelion from amongst the violets and yanked its head off.
It's a good thing he likes yellow, as our house is surrounded by oaks, dogwoods, and redbuds which are all in full, glorious, pollinating bloom at present. If we play fetch with the dogs, they kick up great yellow clouds from the grass. If we leave a car window open, the dashboard is yellow. If we walk across the porch (and it's pretty well impossible not to) we leave gray footprints on the yellow and bring in yellow footprints for the hardwood floor. I'm liking my Swiffer.
Today's forecast is for rain. I'm looking forward to it, so that the above car can look that much less like Bart Simpson (description courtesy of follower Gryffinitter).
At least it's pretty!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Baby Books Leave Stuff Out
The book says Mowgli is the right age to discover his feet. He is indeed doing new things with them, though he's been kicking his bath toys with great accuracy for a couple of months. Now he also grasps the bath scoop between his feet to raise it to his hands, then pours the water inside into his mouth. Yay, baby! Luckily the soap is entirely edible, or so claims the bottle. He seems to like the taste of highly dilute Over-Tired and Cranky formula.
He has also learned to seize his incoming fresh diaper monkeylike with his toes. Then he gives a mighty heave and attempts to fling it across the room. I have learned to swiftly anchor it beneath his butt before he's managed the grab. He's heavy enough to make a good paperweight against his own strength.
Nobody warned me that either of these behaviors were on the list of possibilities. The baby books just have charming pictures of babies grasping their feet or perhaps stuffing those tasty little toes into their mouths. Mowgli appears to feel that these babies lack imagination.
He has also learned to seize his incoming fresh diaper monkeylike with his toes. Then he gives a mighty heave and attempts to fling it across the room. I have learned to swiftly anchor it beneath his butt before he's managed the grab. He's heavy enough to make a good paperweight against his own strength.
Nobody warned me that either of these behaviors were on the list of possibilities. The baby books just have charming pictures of babies grasping their feet or perhaps stuffing those tasty little toes into their mouths. Mowgli appears to feel that these babies lack imagination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)