this and that

I yam what I yam

Moriah

I try to be literary. Really, I do. That’s what Smart People do.

I read Racy Romance Reviews and Read For Pleasure and Teach Me Tonight and I think, “Gee, these women are Smart.” I am not that Smart. So I don’t comment much.

I read the in-depth reviews at Dear Author when they talk about worldbuilding and layering symbolism and use all sorts of literary techniques I learned but didn’t absorb for whatever reason. I read Mrs. Giggles reviews, wherein she’s snarkalicious but not (IMO) unkind—and I think, “Gee, these people are Smart.”

I read A Motley Vision and occasionally, Segullah. I read Theric and Tyler and Trevor. I think, “Gee, these people are Smart.” I am not that Smart. So I don’t comment much, except at AMV, where I probably drive the regular inhabitants insane with my less-than-suave sensitivities. Every time I post there I think, “That was a stupid thing to say.” But I let it lie because that’s who I am, even if I don’t like it sometimes.

And this is why I didn’t study English lit. I can’t analyze worth a damn and half the time, I don’t even know what the existing analyses are saying. I suppose there’s something to be said against a writer who doesn’t think about Great Works beyond “thumbs up” and “thumbs down,” but really, I’ve just come to the point where I have to admit that I like what I like and a good portion of it is crass and commercial.

Then again, sometimes the labels are deceiving. Perhaps I do like crass and commercial, but most times when I pick up a romance novel that intrigues me (mostly historicals), they’re rich and complex, layered and moving so that I’m still thinking about them long after. Sometimes they depend more heavily on characterization or on plot, leaning to one side or the other, but I really don’t care. When they strike a balance—well, that’s a lagniappe.

All I want is a good book to curl up with and a story that sticks with me a while.

But hey—I liked “I’m Too Sexy,” too.

Got you on my mind

Moriah

A picture of the Mormon Nauvoo temple in Nauvoo, Illinois, taken from the hill below.Here’s to me and Dude, who got married 6 years ago in the LDS Nauvoo, Illinois temple (very soon after it re-opened). Yeah, we got married on a Friday. The 13th. On purpose.

A black tie with a stylized and embellished heart screen-printed on the endDude likes funny ties, but Serious Ties not so much. I’m not keen on the Stooges and I thought Spongebob Squarepants was hilarious—but he didn’t. We have been at a tie impasse ever since. Until today.

Happy anniversary, baby.

Too much of a good thing

Moriah

I have an addictive personality and for years, I lived by the motto: If a little’s good, a lot’s gotta be better. It’s taken me years to get that pounded out of me. There are only 3 things where, as Madonna put it, “any number is fine with me/as long as it’s more”:
A stylized resin sculpture of Rankin-Bass Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer

sex
money
books

And there are 2 things I have learned, to my everlasting detriment, where less is best:

salt (way to ruin a perfectly grilled slab of cow)
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

See, Christmas for me usually starts in late September/early October, when the autumn rains start and the leaves begin to mat on the ground. Well, this year, the autumn rains are coming early (though the leaves haven’t even begun to whisper that they’re going to turn). The first sign I’m getting itchy? I crack out the Christmas carols. Okay, so I’m a bit ahead of schedule right now, but then I decided to do a bit of Mom Stuff (that would be mending) and went digging for the Rudolph DVD.

The Tax Deductions don’t appreciate Rudolph for the wonder and magic that he is and I have to admit, in September, there’s not much magic there for me, either.

The magic of Rudolph, I’ve discovered, is in knowing that it will be shown on X date, probably early December, on CBS at X time and if you miss it, you’re just shit out of luck and you have to wait until next year.

I have a DVD and a VHS tape up for sale.

More steampunk, please!

Moriah

I read a lot of Neal Stephenson’s stuff and the only thing he’s written that I cautiously suspect might possibly could be classified steampunk is Diamond Age: Or, a Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer, but I still don’t know if that makes it steampunk because it’s set in the future with Victorian aesthetics instead of in Victoriana with modern technology. (Great book, BTW, but I really really liked The Big U.)

I’ve been meaning to get into it (really!), especially after looking at sites such as Steampunk Workshop and Kit Stolen’s site (and oh, isn’t he a beautiful man; you know I had to make a character out of him).

But this limits me because to me, steampunk is eye candy, as in goods: Pretty clothes and pretty things and gorgeous textures–all DIY. I mean, really. Look at this stuff. It begs caressment.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
steampunkkitstolen
steampunklaptop
steampunkkeyboard

And oh, various steampunk keyboards are for sale at Datamancer, FYI.

Anyway, I’ve been reading a short story by Eva Gale, which is post-apocalyptic for one and steampunk for two (steam engines? of course it is). The story is from Phaze anthology Fantasy IV and is called “Scorpion’s Orchid.” And now my appetite for steampunk fiction is whet and I want more, but SF/F is a foreign land to me. Obviously, I’m going to take suggestions off of Steampunk Workshop’s site, but help me out here, folks. Good steampunk (with or without utopian/dystopian elements) suggestions being solicited.

Sassing back

Moriah

I’ve been on the hunt for a blog feed I like. I’ve used various Firefox plugins and only tried Google reader as a last resort.

While I don’t exactly love it, it’s the best thing I’ve tried so far. Problem is, I don’t get inspired to comment very often because I read, move along. I have too many blogs of interest: romance, LDS, Kansas City, politics, diet/nutrition, traditional and independent publishing, other artsy fartsy craftsy type things (you don’t want to know how many of those I follow), and healthcare industry-related things.

I know I read a blog post/thread a while back commenting on lack of comments all over; someone suggested that this situation was part of the problem. I didn’t understand it then (most of the readers I’ve tried listed how many comments a post had and it would prompt me to check them), but I do now.

The voices in my head tell me to

Moriah

I call them my imaginary friends. When I talk about these people, my husband usually doesn’t know if I’m talking about someone real or not. Occasionally, he doesn’t dare ask because he knows he should know if they are or not. I’d like him to be as invested in them as I am, but that’s not possible. And while he really doesn’t understand, he helps me hammer out details of their motivations and consequences.

I don’t write about them because I want to; I write about them because I must. I am compelled. I don’t think you’ll find another writer anywhere who won’t tell you he’s compelled to write.

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