Something I should have gotten around to long, long ago:



A while ago, I realised that this kind of journal wasn't the kind that should be accessible to the world at large, so I started locking most of the entries. These days I very rarely leave any entries unlocked--thus the official notification. If you do want to be added, just comment to this entry and I'll gladly add you.

( Friending Policy )

I know Charis posted it too, but for those of you who've missed it: Worrying developments in Fantasy Movie-Land. The movie industry, having gobbled down Shakespeare and Jane Austen (Shakespeare in Love and Becoming Jane respectively) now wants to gobble down poor old Tolkien and Lewis. And they've only been dead forty or so years!

...I can't believe that I'm learning about Aboriginal ESP in a law course.

Dad's coming home from his round-the-world trip tomorrow! He's seen the Seven Wonders of the Industrial World and has lots of souvenirs...nuts, bolts, tiny plastic powder-injected tools.

Also I felt a pressing need to see Moulin Rouge! again (it has David Wenham in it, didja know?--in lipstick and a truly awful black wig); so I went online and ordered it from the library, which would cost me $1...and found that my $4 of previous charges had been paid by some good fairy while I wasn't looking. Weird, and not the only time it's happened. My library charges are the only things in my life that go away if I ignore them.

I'm trying to get Quicktime to work so I can see the trailer for The Prestige. I don't know who came up with the idea of putting Batman and Wolverine in the same movie, but I take my hat off to them.

Sewed like frantic all day, and at the end of it, I have a Pirate Shirt.

I'm not completely happy with it--still too bad of a seamstress to come up with the very shiny vision in my head--but overall? Squee!

I wish I hadn't made the body of it so wide, for I didn't really need it *that* far off my shoulders. The sleeves up top are a little too tight (at least, the right arm is; the left arm is just comfy). The rest of the sleeves are, however, all that could be desired, with a most pleasing bouffe. Even the cuffs (and the little ruffle just beyond them) are completely perfect.

The neck I wasn't so lucky with. I actually put on a collar rather than having that authentic, dog-collar look (bad me). I put no interfacing in, so it's not stiff enough to sit quite right (although I didn't want it to be stiff). Having the body gathered into the collar also pulls it about a bit.

The main body is wide and balloon-ish and doesn't look good on its own at all, being plain and balloony as aforesaid. But then, it was never meant to be worn by itself. The shirt looks absolutely fabulous beneath a vest or skimpy short-sleeved top, hurrah!

Now I must go off and find some buttons, hooks, etc to close the cuffs and front slit.

*tap-dances away*

SQUEEEEEEEE!!!!

Shakespeare-san?

...*hyperventilates*

YESSSS!!! I hit 10,000 words!

I expect the novel to expand by half as much again, from 41,000 words to at least 60,000. That'll make it the longest thing I've done so far: still shortish, but a much more reasonable length than my other books.

Funny how every time I write a book it's 10,000 longer than the one before.

Also, I found out that we were wrong about Pilgrim's Progress. It hasn't been in the family for three generations, but two: Mum found it in an op shop for nine bucks a long time ago.

Also, it isn't 75 years old. It's closer to 120 years old. I don't know exactly; I was only able to find a version online from 1890 with a green cover rather than a blue one and slightly different embossing on the cover.

Still, c120 years is just awesome. That book was around when Tolkien was born and John Buchan was growing up. It was already getting elderly (for a book) when WW1 started. It was around during the time that the novel I'm writing was set. Awesome. In every sense of the word.

Today I sweated and strained through 1300 words, made five paper planes, went for the usual driving lesson (I'll be guilty if I see Dad's hair turn white overnight--but I must say that it's nice to have death-defying experiences now and then; keeps one on one's toes), cooked an enormous dinner, lay on the floor blotto during Bible reading and catechism study (those old Puritans were just brilliant), and now I'm back at my desk ready to knock over another 700 words before bed.
Not exactly a restful Sunday, then. What with nearly killing my father (NEVER let an absent-minded authoress drive a car when she still can't remember which side of the road to drive on, or to let the handbrake off before driving through the middle of town) and maniacally writing, I'm pretty tired.
Mum was nearly going to throw out our big old copy of Pilgrim's Progress yesterday. I think we got it from Grandpa. It's a big blue hardback with beautiful black and white and colour illustrations of people in gorgeous Cavalier garb. I remember looking through it a million times just to see the pictures before I even read the book. Its pages are literally turning to dust now; some of them are so old that if you uncrease a corner, it'll fall off. It's a big book, once beautifully bound, and still retaining the charm of beautiful typography and the illustrations, much less the glorious words.
Mum was going to throw the book away and keep the illustrations, but it's a piece of history to me. I don't think anybody will ever read it again, but it deserves to be kept until it dissolves entirely into a bookish-smelling pile of dust. I can't find the date on it, but it's 75 years old at the very least, probably older, and has been in the family for at least three generations and possibly four.
I'm going to pet it and love it and call it George.

Community-Promotion!

This is a Reading Society to Read Books...as that's what Reading Societies do. The goal is not necessarily to read the Current NY Bestseller's List, but to read books of a more obscure and classical taste. Though a variety of genres will be made available to read, we are looking for things along the lines of Lewis, Tolkien, Sayers, Chesterton, Sir Walter Scott, Austen, Tolstoy, etc. etc. etc. This does not mean that we can never discuss anything else, it just means our primary focus is on books that pre-date us.

Now accepting membership! Hie thee over to Erlenstar (You Can't Take The Sky From Me) to apply! Modded by teh Jenn, the aim of this small and select group is to read books, to think thinky thoughts, and to have fun. Meet new authors! Force your interests upon others!

First Selection is CS Lewis's Space Trilogy (just to get started). Grab yourself a copy and embark!!

So, I got a whole carload of new icons, including The Awesome Napoleon Dynamite Dancing In Edoras Icon. Because geekage like that is just so hard to find.

What else? Oh, I spent most of today curled up on the floor reading my Agatha Christie thriller (her murder mysteries aren't a crack on her thrillers).

And I've been enjoying my rest from frenetic uni  work, yes I have, precious.

*points to new icon*

Oh, and courtesy of GK Chesterton: Poems from The Flying Inn. I love his stuff, and this is why.

"I come from Castlepatrick and my heart is on my sleeve,
 And any sword or pistol boy can hit ut with me leave,
 It shines there for an epaulette, as golden as a flame,
 As naked as me ancestors, as noble as me name.
 For I come from Castlepatrick and my heart is on my
    sleeve,
 But a lady stole it from me on St. Gallowglass's Eve.

"The folks that live in Liverpool, their heart is in their boots;
 They go to Hell like lambs, they do, because the hooter hoots.
 Where men may not be dancin', though the wheels may
    dance all day;
 And men may not be smokin', but only chimneys may.
 But I come from Castlepatrick and my heart is on my
    sleeve,
 But a lady stole it from me on St. Poleyander's Eve.

"The folks that live in black Belfast, their heart is in their
    mouth;
 They see us making murders in the meadows of the South;
 They think a plough's a rack they do, and cattle-calls are
    creeds,
 And they think we're burnin' witches when we're only
    burnin' weeds.
 But I come from Castlepatrick, and me heart is on me
    sleeve;
 But a lady stole it from me on St. Barnabas's Eve."

    "St. George he was for England,
       And before he killed the dragon
     He drank a pint of English ale
       Out of an English flagon.
     For though he fast right readily
       In hair-shirt or in mail,
     It isn't safe to give him cakes
       Unless you give him ale.

    "St. George he was for England,
       And right gallantly set free
     The lady left for dragon's meat
       And tied up to a tree;
     But since he stood for England
       And knew what England means,
     Unless you give him bacon,
       You mustn't give him beans.

    "St. George he was for England,
       And shall wear the shield he wore
     When we go out in armour,
       With the battle-cross before;
     But though he is jolly company
       And very pleased to dine,
     It isn't safe to give him nuts
       Unless you give him wine."

"Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
 The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English
    road.
 A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
 And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire.
 A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
 That night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy
    Head.


"I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
 And for to fight the Frenchmen I did not much desire;
 But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
 To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard
    made,
 Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in
    our hands
 The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin
  Sands.

"His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
 Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
 The wild thing went from left to right and knew not
    which was which,
 But the wild rose was above him when they found him
    in the ditch.
 God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
 The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton
    Pier.

"My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
 Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
 But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that
    wandereth,
 And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
 For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be
    seen
 Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green."

      "In the city set upon slime and loam
     They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
     And there is no answer in arch or dome,
     For none in the city of graves goes home.
     Yet these shall perish and understand,
     For God has pity on this great land.
     Men that are men again; who goes home?
     Tocsin and trumpeter!  Who goes home?
     For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam,
     And blood on the body when man goes home.
     And a voice valedictory--Who is for Victory?"
     Who is for Liberty?  Who goes home?"

There's funnier stuff and more stuff, but it's all fabulous.

My Shakespeare essay, which I am slightly proud of in spite of a howler in the second paragraph and the weakest conclusion in existence. But I'll fix that tomorrow.

( Twelfth Night in Illyria )

EDIT: How'd THAT happen?...all fixed, anyway.
EDIT AGAIN: Oh, btw, Roselet, the Bishop of London has nothing to do with your New Delhan bf...