Sarah Monette's Blog, page 54
November 18, 2010
second go-round
Second acupuncture session today.
This one was more difficult than the first, because this time I knew what to expect, particularly from Zusanli , which sends a bolt of agony from knee to toes. (I suspect there is correlation with my physical therapist's observation yesterday that the muscles of my lower legs are currently extremely tense.) It was hard to lie still and go through with it. However, it had the same effect: namely, the RLS got more and more agitated and then dissolved. We'll see how long it stays gone this time.
I need to accept that the clinic is too cold to be comfortable lying still for an hour without a blanket, because having to call the acupuncturist in the middle of the hour is really kind of disruptive.
I find myself a little more off-kilter post-treatment than I was last week, and my bad ankle is definitely affected. I was limping heavily on the way home, and it's now sore just behind and under the knob of the fibula--which may not be a bad thing. I just want to note it.
This was also my acupuncturist's last day at this clinic, so next week I get to meet the new acupuncturist. Excelsior.
This one was more difficult than the first, because this time I knew what to expect, particularly from Zusanli , which sends a bolt of agony from knee to toes. (I suspect there is correlation with my physical therapist's observation yesterday that the muscles of my lower legs are currently extremely tense.) It was hard to lie still and go through with it. However, it had the same effect: namely, the RLS got more and more agitated and then dissolved. We'll see how long it stays gone this time.
I need to accept that the clinic is too cold to be comfortable lying still for an hour without a blanket, because having to call the acupuncturist in the middle of the hour is really kind of disruptive.
I find myself a little more off-kilter post-treatment than I was last week, and my bad ankle is definitely affected. I was limping heavily on the way home, and it's now sore just behind and under the knob of the fibula--which may not be a bad thing. I just want to note it.
This was also my acupuncturist's last day at this clinic, so next week I get to meet the new acupuncturist. Excelsior.
Photo reference: Mehitabel
So, a while back, the excellent
![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380442897i/1319734.gif)
fidelioscabinet
pointed me to Natalia Alexandrovna Pushkina as a good visual for Mehitabel Parr.
Earlier this week, I was looking at Wikipedia for something (the Golden Dawn, I think, but it might have been anything), and their main page had this picture of the 6'7" (!) Russian volleyball player, Yekaterina Gamova, and I thought, Hello, Mehitabel. (I believe it's partly the look she's giving the camera.)
And there are some similarities between Gamova and Pushkina, in the shape of the face and the angle of the eyebrows particularly. So I suspect if you did a mash-up of the two, you'd get something close to what I think Mehitabel Parr looks like.
fidelioscabinet
pointed me to Natalia Alexandrovna Pushkina as a good visual for Mehitabel Parr. Earlier this week, I was looking at Wikipedia for something (the Golden Dawn, I think, but it might have been anything), and their main page had this picture of the 6'7" (!) Russian volleyball player, Yekaterina Gamova, and I thought, Hello, Mehitabel. (I believe it's partly the look she's giving the camera.)
And there are some similarities between Gamova and Pushkina, in the shape of the face and the angle of the eyebrows particularly. So I suspect if you did a mash-up of the two, you'd get something close to what I think Mehitabel Parr looks like.
November 17, 2010
Marge Piercy, "For the young who want to"
For the young who want to
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
--Marge Piercy, Circles on the Water: Selected Poems of Marge Piercy (1982)
Found here, because @catvalente tweeted it. Apparently today is a really good day for poems.
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
--Marge Piercy, Circles on the Water: Selected Poems of Marge Piercy (1982)
Found here, because @catvalente tweeted it. Apparently today is a really good day for poems.
Lisa Olstein, "Ibex Have Evolved for Life at the Top"
Ibex Have Evolved for Life at the Top
When we say specimen
we mean you. By you
we mean whatever
collection of night sweats
and shopping lists accumulates
in the bed by dawn. When
we say dark we mean pitch,
moonless, starless,
don't even open your eyes.
When we say he has your eyes
we mean we see nothing
of you there. If you want
someone to come for you,
you'll have to cry harder than that.
If you want to be prepared,
practice: blizzard, fire, famine.
Your shoes or your coat?
Your cat or your dog?
Sister, daughter, mother, wife?
— Lisa Olstein
from The Nation 291:20, November 15, 2010
I got this from
heresluck
, who's been posting a poem on Monday for a lot of Mondays now (even if sometimes the Mondays come on Tuesday or Wednesday *g*). H.L. also observes that yesterday was the release date for Olstein's collaboration with Jeffrey Foucault,
Cold Satellite
, which you may now find is something you want to know about.
When we say specimen
we mean you. By you
we mean whatever
collection of night sweats
and shopping lists accumulates
in the bed by dawn. When
we say dark we mean pitch,
moonless, starless,
don't even open your eyes.
When we say he has your eyes
we mean we see nothing
of you there. If you want
someone to come for you,
you'll have to cry harder than that.
If you want to be prepared,
practice: blizzard, fire, famine.
Your shoes or your coat?
Your cat or your dog?
Sister, daughter, mother, wife?
— Lisa Olstein
from The Nation 291:20, November 15, 2010
I got this from
heresluck
, who's been posting a poem on Monday for a lot of Mondays now (even if sometimes the Mondays come on Tuesday or Wednesday *g*). H.L. also observes that yesterday was the release date for Olstein's collaboration with Jeffrey Foucault,
Cold Satellite
, which you may now find is something you want to know about.
November 16, 2010
Why I do not NaNoWriMo
So, it's NaNoWriMo again.
(For those of you who do not know, that's National Novel Writing Month.)
In her post about the recent NaNoWriMo kerfuffle, Mary Robinette Kowal, explaining the benefits NaNoWriMo provided to her, said, "When you are getting your legs, writing long form is really intimidating."
Now, I don't doubt for a moment that this is true for Mary. It's her post and she has no reason to lie. But I read that and I thought, Wait, what? Long form is EASY. It's short form that's scary like whoa.
And then it occurred to me that perhaps this was worth unpacking.
When I started writing (at the ripe old age of eleven), I started writing novels. Or, well, "novels," since I doubt any of my first efforts was any longer than what I'd think of as a short story or maybe a novelette today. But for me, at eleven, they were novels, and they were what I instantly and automatically gravitated to when I started trying to write. I knew the old chestnut about "if you want to break into publishing, you have to write short stories," so I tried, on and off through high school and college. (And then there was the most poisonous form rejection letter known to humankind, and I stopped like a lab rat hit with an electric shock.) But I never got the hang of it. Short stories were scary and hard and I didn't understand them. Novels, I just flung myself at; I started dozens, and every time one broke down, I just started another. I finished maybe three or four (using the word "novel" loosely, remember) before I started writing Mélusine, and got more than 50k into at least two others, but I never stopped trying, and I never had any fundamental doubt that I could do it. (Doing it well was a different question, but that's also a different post.)
I didn't go back to short stories until 2000, when I got handed the old chestnut about "breaking into publishing" again, this time by my then-agent. And, serendipitously, I met
elisem
and her jewelry. (I sometimes think my ability to write short stories is really all Elise's fault.) The first successful short story I wrote, in 2000, was "Letter from a Teddy Bear on Veterans' Day", from one of her necklaces. The second was "Bringing Helena Back," which is the first Booth story. And, of course, obviously, I've gone on from there, but I've always felt like my grip on the form was tenuous; I'm never sure why one short story works and the next one doesn't. They're still scary and hard, and I still don't understand them very well, even though I've published nearly forty of them.
NaNoWriMo doesn't work for me because I'm a competitive, literal-minded over-achiever, and if I focus on word count, then word count is all I will get, and the novel will be drivel. (See also, Why Corambis Was Six Months Late.) This does not mean that I think NaNoWriMo is a bad thing in and of itself--and honestly, I don't have any right or ability to judge whether it's good or bad for other people. It's just bad for me.
All I wanted to say, really, was that if you're a beginning writer and NaNoWriMo doesn't work for you, that doesn't mean you can't write a novel.
Learning how to write is a never-ending process of trial and error. You have to try things to find out if they work for you. If they do, that's great. If they don't, it's not a disaster. It just means you try something else. There is no "right" way to do it; it's all down to what works for you and what doesn't. And nobody but you can make that call.
(For those of you who do not know, that's National Novel Writing Month.)
In her post about the recent NaNoWriMo kerfuffle, Mary Robinette Kowal, explaining the benefits NaNoWriMo provided to her, said, "When you are getting your legs, writing long form is really intimidating."
Now, I don't doubt for a moment that this is true for Mary. It's her post and she has no reason to lie. But I read that and I thought, Wait, what? Long form is EASY. It's short form that's scary like whoa.
And then it occurred to me that perhaps this was worth unpacking.
When I started writing (at the ripe old age of eleven), I started writing novels. Or, well, "novels," since I doubt any of my first efforts was any longer than what I'd think of as a short story or maybe a novelette today. But for me, at eleven, they were novels, and they were what I instantly and automatically gravitated to when I started trying to write. I knew the old chestnut about "if you want to break into publishing, you have to write short stories," so I tried, on and off through high school and college. (And then there was the most poisonous form rejection letter known to humankind, and I stopped like a lab rat hit with an electric shock.) But I never got the hang of it. Short stories were scary and hard and I didn't understand them. Novels, I just flung myself at; I started dozens, and every time one broke down, I just started another. I finished maybe three or four (using the word "novel" loosely, remember) before I started writing Mélusine, and got more than 50k into at least two others, but I never stopped trying, and I never had any fundamental doubt that I could do it. (Doing it well was a different question, but that's also a different post.)
I didn't go back to short stories until 2000, when I got handed the old chestnut about "breaking into publishing" again, this time by my then-agent. And, serendipitously, I met
elisem
and her jewelry. (I sometimes think my ability to write short stories is really all Elise's fault.) The first successful short story I wrote, in 2000, was "Letter from a Teddy Bear on Veterans' Day", from one of her necklaces. The second was "Bringing Helena Back," which is the first Booth story. And, of course, obviously, I've gone on from there, but I've always felt like my grip on the form was tenuous; I'm never sure why one short story works and the next one doesn't. They're still scary and hard, and I still don't understand them very well, even though I've published nearly forty of them.NaNoWriMo doesn't work for me because I'm a competitive, literal-minded over-achiever, and if I focus on word count, then word count is all I will get, and the novel will be drivel. (See also, Why Corambis Was Six Months Late.) This does not mean that I think NaNoWriMo is a bad thing in and of itself--and honestly, I don't have any right or ability to judge whether it's good or bad for other people. It's just bad for me.
All I wanted to say, really, was that if you're a beginning writer and NaNoWriMo doesn't work for you, that doesn't mean you can't write a novel.
Learning how to write is a never-ending process of trial and error. You have to try things to find out if they work for you. If they do, that's great. If they don't, it's not a disaster. It just means you try something else. There is no "right" way to do it; it's all down to what works for you and what doesn't. And nobody but you can make that call.
November 12, 2010
New keyboard! Plus an interlude with a feral cat.
My new keyboard has arrived, courtesy of the kindness of my parents. It is, happily, almost exactly like my old one, except with better action, and the right ALT key has been replaced by a Windows/Mac squiggle key (you know what I mean). We'll see if that bothers me or not--I think I actually tend to use the left ALT key anyway, so I may never notice except when I hit the damn thing by accident.
When I went out just now to see if perhaps the FedEx ninjas had softly and silently delivered the keyboard, as the FedEx ninjas are wont to do, I found that indeed they had, placed tidily just to the right of the door. And tidily on top of it was El Marmelado, one of the current cast of feralistas.*
We think El Marmelado may have had a domestic mother, although he was clearly lost/abandoned/thrown out before he was old enough to neuter. (Jowlz. I has them, says El Marmelado.) He is noticeably less skittish than the other ferals. Over the past week, El Marmelado has gone from hissing at me when I inadvertantly got too close to giving me a silent meow when I came out with food. And this afternoon, he was totally King of the Box. I came out, and he was all, What do you want, thumb-monkey?
That's my box, I said.
Says who? said El Marmelado. I got dibs.
Since I don't actually want to encourage him to be afraid of me (the plan being eventually to trap and neuter him, and it would be very cool if he could be rehabilitated into a domestic kitty, although I'm not holding my breath), I said, Okay, went down to check the mail, and came back.
El Marmelado held his ground until I was actually opening the screen door again, and then he retreated a couple of feet. I took the box, but I offered a trade by fetching the food and water I put out for the feralistas daily.
My box was better, said El Marmelado grumpily and went to get a drink.
And when I came back inside with my new keyboard, I discovered Catzilla had somehow gotten himself shut in the pantry. Again.
Life with cats.
---
*These days, I regularly see El Marmelado, the Shy Tabby, and the Lesser Mackenzie, and there's another, even lesser, fluffy red cat whom I have seen once or twice. The Lesser Mackenzie is the only one of the cats we trapped and had neutered whom I still see--Rigby and the Greater Mackenzie have both vanished, along with Eleanor and Hilary. I hope they've just found other territories to roam, but I suspect that isn't really the answer.
The only kitten I have ever seen was Eleanor's kitten, Brownkitten (well, and her sibling, who disappeared only a couple days after I first saw them). Brownkitten, I got into the local feral rescue program, and I hope she is living as happy and pampered a life as our Formerly Feral Ninjas are.**
---
**A quick ninja story--fanservice for the cat-lovers, since this is already a cat-centric post: When the Second Ninja was small, she was the poster child for Short Attention Span Theater. (She's still that way a little, but maturity has brought a better ability to focus.) She was also an inveterate investigator of cups if they were left where she could reach them, always with the same, "Ooh, hey, cup! What's in here?" attitude. This morning, I had a cup of warm water on my desk from taking my herbal supplement, and the Second Ninja came to walk across my keyboard and get snuggles, like she does. And she noticed the cup.
I am charmed to report that at the serious and mature age of six, she is still an inveterate investigator of cups.
"Ooh, hey, cup!"
When I went out just now to see if perhaps the FedEx ninjas had softly and silently delivered the keyboard, as the FedEx ninjas are wont to do, I found that indeed they had, placed tidily just to the right of the door. And tidily on top of it was El Marmelado, one of the current cast of feralistas.*
We think El Marmelado may have had a domestic mother, although he was clearly lost/abandoned/thrown out before he was old enough to neuter. (Jowlz. I has them, says El Marmelado.) He is noticeably less skittish than the other ferals. Over the past week, El Marmelado has gone from hissing at me when I inadvertantly got too close to giving me a silent meow when I came out with food. And this afternoon, he was totally King of the Box. I came out, and he was all, What do you want, thumb-monkey?
That's my box, I said.
Says who? said El Marmelado. I got dibs.
Since I don't actually want to encourage him to be afraid of me (the plan being eventually to trap and neuter him, and it would be very cool if he could be rehabilitated into a domestic kitty, although I'm not holding my breath), I said, Okay, went down to check the mail, and came back.
El Marmelado held his ground until I was actually opening the screen door again, and then he retreated a couple of feet. I took the box, but I offered a trade by fetching the food and water I put out for the feralistas daily.
My box was better, said El Marmelado grumpily and went to get a drink.
And when I came back inside with my new keyboard, I discovered Catzilla had somehow gotten himself shut in the pantry. Again.
Life with cats.
---
*These days, I regularly see El Marmelado, the Shy Tabby, and the Lesser Mackenzie, and there's another, even lesser, fluffy red cat whom I have seen once or twice. The Lesser Mackenzie is the only one of the cats we trapped and had neutered whom I still see--Rigby and the Greater Mackenzie have both vanished, along with Eleanor and Hilary. I hope they've just found other territories to roam, but I suspect that isn't really the answer.
The only kitten I have ever seen was Eleanor's kitten, Brownkitten (well, and her sibling, who disappeared only a couple days after I first saw them). Brownkitten, I got into the local feral rescue program, and I hope she is living as happy and pampered a life as our Formerly Feral Ninjas are.**
---
**A quick ninja story--fanservice for the cat-lovers, since this is already a cat-centric post: When the Second Ninja was small, she was the poster child for Short Attention Span Theater. (She's still that way a little, but maturity has brought a better ability to focus.) She was also an inveterate investigator of cups if they were left where she could reach them, always with the same, "Ooh, hey, cup! What's in here?" attitude. This morning, I had a cup of warm water on my desk from taking my herbal supplement, and the Second Ninja came to walk across my keyboard and get snuggles, like she does. And she noticed the cup.
I am charmed to report that at the serious and mature age of six, she is still an inveterate investigator of cups.
"Ooh, hey, cup!"
November 11, 2010
acupuncture
So today at 10 (after an excruciatingly bad night), I had my first acupuncture appointment. It was interesting.
The acupuncturist diagnosed a chronic yin-deficiency and suggested some ways to help combat that; she also suggested a herbal supplement that she herself uses (she has restless wrist).* Then I took off my shoes and socks (and brace and compression stocking) and got up on the table for her to put needles in my hands and forearms, my calves, ankles, and feet, my ears, and the crown of my head, so I was a kind of postmodern porcupine or a really minimalist Martyrdom of St. Sebastian. Mostly, although I could feel the needles going in, it wasn't painful--except for a particular spot on both calves that caused stabbing agony when she adjusted the needles. (This seems to be part of the point, however, since those two were the only points at which she stopped and said, "Can you feel this?") After insertion, I couldn't feel most of the needles, except for one in my left forearm and one in my right hand which maintained a low-level dull discomfort. So this is not something I would do for fun, but it wasn't unendurable, either.
Then she turned the overhead light out and left me and the needles to work things out.
People apparently sleep; I did a four-count breathing pattern (in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, which self-modified into just in for four, out for four, after a while) and tried basically not to get in my own way. The worst problem I had was finding a position that would let my arms relax without either (a.) flopping off the table or (b.) bumping the needles. After a while (I have no idea how long), I had to call the acupuncturist for a blanket, as my forearms got chilly. I had a hell of a time getting my voice to work, which is something I've noticed happen coming out of savasana after intense yoga sessions. She draped the blanket very carefully over my porcupined forearms, and then I lay there and counted breaths and tried not to think about my bladder. (Yes, very like trying not to think about a blue-eyed polar bear.)
At the beginning of the session, both legs were relaxed, and my left leg stayed that way, warm and boneless and not causing trouble. But my right leg started twitching. It got to where it was like I could feel the RLS like a fist-sized iron knot in my leg (outer side, front, just above the knee), preventing the leg from relaxing and causing this horrible counter-productive twitching. I was on the verge of giving up in despair and calling the acupuncturist to say this wasn't working when something really interesting happened.
The iron knot dissolved.
My right leg was abruptly a leg again, warm and relaxed like the left leg.
I was still just lying there being astonished when the acupuncturist came in to remove the needles. (Ergo, it took most of the hour for that to happen.) I got up carefully, paid the clinic (because, of course, my health insurance does not cover acupuncture), and walked home. Fed the cats, took the acupuncturist's herbal supplement and the calcium/magnesium/zinc supplement the pharmacist recommended with a Pepper Jack cheese sandwich, and am going to spend the afternoon drinking lots of water and probably typing in my progress on "Clouded Mary" from yesterday. If I'm even that ambitious.
I have no idea if the iron knot will stay dissolved even long enough to get to bedtime tonight. But, even if it doesn't, I felt the RLS retreat.
And that is truly amazing.
---
*Evergreen Herbs Flex SC, if you're curious. Incidentally, Catzilla seems to be fascinated by the bottle.
The acupuncturist diagnosed a chronic yin-deficiency and suggested some ways to help combat that; she also suggested a herbal supplement that she herself uses (she has restless wrist).* Then I took off my shoes and socks (and brace and compression stocking) and got up on the table for her to put needles in my hands and forearms, my calves, ankles, and feet, my ears, and the crown of my head, so I was a kind of postmodern porcupine or a really minimalist Martyrdom of St. Sebastian. Mostly, although I could feel the needles going in, it wasn't painful--except for a particular spot on both calves that caused stabbing agony when she adjusted the needles. (This seems to be part of the point, however, since those two were the only points at which she stopped and said, "Can you feel this?") After insertion, I couldn't feel most of the needles, except for one in my left forearm and one in my right hand which maintained a low-level dull discomfort. So this is not something I would do for fun, but it wasn't unendurable, either.
Then she turned the overhead light out and left me and the needles to work things out.
People apparently sleep; I did a four-count breathing pattern (in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, which self-modified into just in for four, out for four, after a while) and tried basically not to get in my own way. The worst problem I had was finding a position that would let my arms relax without either (a.) flopping off the table or (b.) bumping the needles. After a while (I have no idea how long), I had to call the acupuncturist for a blanket, as my forearms got chilly. I had a hell of a time getting my voice to work, which is something I've noticed happen coming out of savasana after intense yoga sessions. She draped the blanket very carefully over my porcupined forearms, and then I lay there and counted breaths and tried not to think about my bladder. (Yes, very like trying not to think about a blue-eyed polar bear.)
At the beginning of the session, both legs were relaxed, and my left leg stayed that way, warm and boneless and not causing trouble. But my right leg started twitching. It got to where it was like I could feel the RLS like a fist-sized iron knot in my leg (outer side, front, just above the knee), preventing the leg from relaxing and causing this horrible counter-productive twitching. I was on the verge of giving up in despair and calling the acupuncturist to say this wasn't working when something really interesting happened.
The iron knot dissolved.
My right leg was abruptly a leg again, warm and relaxed like the left leg.
I was still just lying there being astonished when the acupuncturist came in to remove the needles. (Ergo, it took most of the hour for that to happen.) I got up carefully, paid the clinic (because, of course, my health insurance does not cover acupuncture), and walked home. Fed the cats, took the acupuncturist's herbal supplement and the calcium/magnesium/zinc supplement the pharmacist recommended with a Pepper Jack cheese sandwich, and am going to spend the afternoon drinking lots of water and probably typing in my progress on "Clouded Mary" from yesterday. If I'm even that ambitious.
I have no idea if the iron knot will stay dissolved even long enough to get to bedtime tonight. But, even if it doesn't, I felt the RLS retreat.
And that is truly amazing.
---
*Evergreen Herbs Flex SC, if you're curious. Incidentally, Catzilla seems to be fascinated by the bottle.
November 9, 2010
Day 101
So my little cloth lace-up brace is my new best friend. Not only can I wear TWO shoes again, I can wear pants. (Pants! I have a whole new appreciation for pants, let me tell you.) And on Saturday I was actually able to ride Milo. It was for fifteen minutes, and it was the most boring lesson ever, and it was AWESOME.
However, some verisimilitude notes for writers. I still can't go downstairs normally; it's bad foot down one, then good foot to join it, then bad foot down one, then good foot to join it. Although I can walk relatively normally, and even fairly fast (although not without pain), there is a point beyond which I simply cannot go faster. There is, as Gertrude Stein said of Oakland, no there there. Also, I cannot run. (As we discovered on Saturday night, I cannot even jog to cross the street ahead of oncoming traffic, and
rarelylynne
, I'm sorry for scaring you.) Uneven surfaces are hell. And this is with the brace. Without the brace, I can sort of limp/shuffle around on the nice flat floors of my house.
The RLS continues to be bratty and abysmal, and now that I'm off the narcotics entirely, it's harder to sleep. Sunday night I was up every two or three hours; last night, I was up at least once. (The difference between RLS and insomnia: with insomnia, I'm just not sleepy; with RLS, I'm desperately sleepy, but I've got the invisible goblins poking me and I can't sleep. I'll take good old-fashioned insomnia any day.) I'm starting magnesium supplements ("it might help," said the doctor's office), and on Thursday I have an appointment with an acupuncturist. I will of course report back.
However, some verisimilitude notes for writers. I still can't go downstairs normally; it's bad foot down one, then good foot to join it, then bad foot down one, then good foot to join it. Although I can walk relatively normally, and even fairly fast (although not without pain), there is a point beyond which I simply cannot go faster. There is, as Gertrude Stein said of Oakland, no there there. Also, I cannot run. (As we discovered on Saturday night, I cannot even jog to cross the street ahead of oncoming traffic, and
rarelylynne
, I'm sorry for scaring you.) Uneven surfaces are hell. And this is with the brace. Without the brace, I can sort of limp/shuffle around on the nice flat floors of my house.The RLS continues to be bratty and abysmal, and now that I'm off the narcotics entirely, it's harder to sleep. Sunday night I was up every two or three hours; last night, I was up at least once. (The difference between RLS and insomnia: with insomnia, I'm just not sleepy; with RLS, I'm desperately sleepy, but I've got the invisible goblins poking me and I can't sleep. I'll take good old-fashioned insomnia any day.) I'm starting magnesium supplements ("it might help," said the doctor's office), and on Thursday I have an appointment with an acupuncturist. I will of course report back.
Bread recipe
I am making bread today, for the first time since July. To celebrate, I offer unto you, O internets, my bread recipe, which I have found utterly reliable and idiot-proof, the idiot in question being me. It is very forgiving of trial-and-error.
Viola!
Combine in a generously sized mixing bowl:
2 T yeast (that's two packages if you don't buy your yeast in bulk)
1/4 c warm water
a pinch of brown sugar
Wait 5 minutes for the yeast to wake up.
Then add:
3 c warm water
3 T brown sugar
~1/2 T salt (depending on preference--for me, a little salt goes a long way, but the original recipe I got from my mom calls for a full tablespoon)
3 T canola oil
1 c rolled oats (again, depending on preference--original recipe says 1/2 c, but I say, the more oats the merrier)
6 c flour (my current favorite mix is 2 c rye flour, 2 c whole wheat flour, and 2 c white flour, but you could do 6 c white flour or 3 white and 3 whole wheat, or whatever takes your fancy)
Mix together, adding flour as necessary. When you have a sticky, semi-coherent mass, spread flour on the counter and tip it out. Remember to scrape the bowl and spoon to get all of the dough.
Now you knead, continuing to add flour as necessary. You want to end up with a smooth, cohesive, elastic, globular wodge of dough, likely somewhat lunar in its topography (depending on the flour, it will be more or less sticky to the touch). I don't find it particularly useful to say "knead for five minutes" or "ten minutes" or whatever, because how long you need to knead will depend on the mix and quantity of flour you've used, the ambient heat and humidity, and your own personal arm strength. Also, like pornography, I've found that I know finished dough when I see it. It becomes an entity rather than a mess.
Put your entity back in the mixing bowl and let it rise for an hour and half. I cache it in the oven, because my house has enterprising quadrupeds.
After an hour and a half, take it out, divide it in half as evenly as you can (not very, in my case), shape your two new entities and tuck them into their bread pans, using butter, PAM, or other greasing agents as your pans require. Let them rise for another half hour to forty-five minutes, again depending on operating conditions. You want them to rise into graceful arcs over their pans, but not to start taking over the world.
Set the oven to preheat to 400 degrees. If your entities are sulky and disinclined to rise, you can set them on the stove-top, to take advantage of the heat. On the other hand, if they are enthusiastic megalomaniacs, you'll want to put them on the counter on the other side of the room.
When oven and entities are ready, combine. Bake for 40 minutes (if you're using my oven--for other ovens this time may vary, and you may want to experiment). Now is a good time to get out the cooling rack, and don't forget to set the timer. (Not that that would be a recommendation from personal experience or anything. Ahem.)
When the timer goes off, remove baked and radiant entities from oven and tip them out of their bread pans to sit on the cooling rack and fill your house with the smell of fresh bread. You should probably let them cool for at least a half hour before you cave to their blandishments and begin consuming them.
Nom nom nom.
Viola!
Combine in a generously sized mixing bowl:
2 T yeast (that's two packages if you don't buy your yeast in bulk)
1/4 c warm water
a pinch of brown sugar
Wait 5 minutes for the yeast to wake up.
Then add:
3 c warm water
3 T brown sugar
~1/2 T salt (depending on preference--for me, a little salt goes a long way, but the original recipe I got from my mom calls for a full tablespoon)
3 T canola oil
1 c rolled oats (again, depending on preference--original recipe says 1/2 c, but I say, the more oats the merrier)
6 c flour (my current favorite mix is 2 c rye flour, 2 c whole wheat flour, and 2 c white flour, but you could do 6 c white flour or 3 white and 3 whole wheat, or whatever takes your fancy)
Mix together, adding flour as necessary. When you have a sticky, semi-coherent mass, spread flour on the counter and tip it out. Remember to scrape the bowl and spoon to get all of the dough.
Now you knead, continuing to add flour as necessary. You want to end up with a smooth, cohesive, elastic, globular wodge of dough, likely somewhat lunar in its topography (depending on the flour, it will be more or less sticky to the touch). I don't find it particularly useful to say "knead for five minutes" or "ten minutes" or whatever, because how long you need to knead will depend on the mix and quantity of flour you've used, the ambient heat and humidity, and your own personal arm strength. Also, like pornography, I've found that I know finished dough when I see it. It becomes an entity rather than a mess.
Put your entity back in the mixing bowl and let it rise for an hour and half. I cache it in the oven, because my house has enterprising quadrupeds.
After an hour and a half, take it out, divide it in half as evenly as you can (not very, in my case), shape your two new entities and tuck them into their bread pans, using butter, PAM, or other greasing agents as your pans require. Let them rise for another half hour to forty-five minutes, again depending on operating conditions. You want them to rise into graceful arcs over their pans, but not to start taking over the world.
Set the oven to preheat to 400 degrees. If your entities are sulky and disinclined to rise, you can set them on the stove-top, to take advantage of the heat. On the other hand, if they are enthusiastic megalomaniacs, you'll want to put them on the counter on the other side of the room.
When oven and entities are ready, combine. Bake for 40 minutes (if you're using my oven--for other ovens this time may vary, and you may want to experiment). Now is a good time to get out the cooling rack, and don't forget to set the timer. (Not that that would be a recommendation from personal experience or anything. Ahem.)
When the timer goes off, remove baked and radiant entities from oven and tip them out of their bread pans to sit on the cooling rack and fill your house with the smell of fresh bread. You should probably let them cool for at least a half hour before you cave to their blandishments and begin consuming them.
Nom nom nom.
5 things the internet has given me today
Jim Hines has two great posts:
1. contact information for reporting sexual harassment in SF/F
2. This Is What Asperger's Looks Like.
3. (via
buymeaclue
) an important PSA for riders: WEAR YOUR DAMN HELMET.
4.
yuki_onna
has cover art for Fairyland.
5.
jaylake
has been posting pictures of a train recently. This one is my favorite (possibly because I'm thinking my blind automaton meets clockwork dragon* story needs a talking locomotive called The Bullroarer, and although the period is all wrong, the picture really helps).
Today started for me with a really awesome piece of bad news, which I will share with you all as soon as it's official. (I know, I know, the cognitive dissonance will drive you mad, but I'm not being sarcastic. It really is both.)
---
*I realized last night that actually my statement in this post could have been even better and more descriptive of my work as a whole, because it really goes like this: I write literary fiction about two women meeting in a train station and exchanging their life stories, except one of the women is a blind automaton and the other is a giant clockwork dragon.
1. contact information for reporting sexual harassment in SF/F
2. This Is What Asperger's Looks Like.
3. (via
buymeaclue
) an important PSA for riders: WEAR YOUR DAMN HELMET.4.
yuki_onna
has cover art for Fairyland.5.
jaylake
has been posting pictures of a train recently. This one is my favorite (possibly because I'm thinking my blind automaton meets clockwork dragon* story needs a talking locomotive called The Bullroarer, and although the period is all wrong, the picture really helps).Today started for me with a really awesome piece of bad news, which I will share with you all as soon as it's official. (I know, I know, the cognitive dissonance will drive you mad, but I'm not being sarcastic. It really is both.)
---
*I realized last night that actually my statement in this post could have been even better and more descriptive of my work as a whole, because it really goes like this: I write literary fiction about two women meeting in a train station and exchanging their life stories, except one of the women is a blind automaton and the other is a giant clockwork dragon.
