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Medium Dawn Felagund of the Fountain

Another Pleasant Valley Wednesday

The (Cyber) Bag of Weasels

bread and puppet




"About as much fun as a bag of weasels"...when I first saw this Irish adage, it made me think of the life of a writer: sometimes perilous, sometimes painful, certainly interesting. My paper journal has always been called "The Bag of Weasels." This is the Bag of Weasels' online home.

Another Pleasant Valley Wednesday

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bread and puppet
Yesterday turned out to be a goofy day at work. At about 9:30, I got an emergency warrant through fax. As they always seem to be, it was Kathy's warrant, and the guy was a child molester who had been arrested for exposing himself to a busload of kids, thus violating his parole. Well, Kathy was out and about already, knocking on doors, and so she started investigation on it right away. Come to find out, the guy had been arrested the night before on our warrant. Great, right? Should be. It should have been an open-and-shut case, not taking more than a few measly hours. The problem? He's lost; no one knows where he is, and every detention center we've called has no clue. So from about eleven yesterday until the time I left (4:30), a team effort was under way to find this guy. I put on my best pathetic, don't-you-feel-sympathy-for-me-and-my-poor-lost-prisoner voice and did my share of calling but no dice. Kathy, naturally, was fit to be tied. We have a lot of problems with the detention centers involved. One won't even take back its own parolees, which is law! So we shall see if this mess gets resolved today. Hopefully it will.

Despite all this, I almost finished my Nerdanel chapter. I could have finished, truthfully, but I had to shut down Word because the computer was acting cranky, and I didn't feel like starting it back up again. In typical Dawn Felagund fashion, I began this chapter with no clue how it would end, and alas, the pieces came together in a better fashion than if I'd intended such an ending. One day, my writer's luck is going to run out, and I'm going to find that I'm actually going to have to plot out my story, like normal people do. Until then, though, I am happy to enjoy serendipity. It's kind of more like real life this way: There are pieces that have to be brought together into an ending. It's kind of like free will for my stories instead of destiny. My published short story (which also won an award, senior year in high school, as one of the best short stories in Baltimore County Public Schools) I wrote without a clue as to what was going to happen or how it was going to end. I just knew that I wanted it to be about the 1958 Manchester United tragedy and let it happen from there. And while I am not overly fond of that story now (six years later), I suppose it was pretty spectacular for a seventeen-year-old. It made a lot of people cry.

My favorite writing teacher, Sally, asked me once what kind of pre-writing I do, and I told her that I don't really. I write in my head all the time. This is how I know that my true place in this world--despite my know-how in math and science, despite my inklings as an entrepreneur--is as a writer and an artist. I get so excited about projects that I can't sleep. Last night, I stayed awake for almost an hour, planning how I was going to build a model of a chariot flying off of a cliff. If it works, it will be a spectacular model and could give some strong contention for the Golden Demon, but we shall see. (I have to finish building my f***ing army first.) Anyway, I used to despise English/writing classes where you'd have to turn in some kind of concrete pre-writing as part of your grade. I usually used to write the paper/story, then make up some pre-writing based around it. Otherwise, my thought was: How the hell am I supposed to know how it's going to end? I haven't written it yet! I have a serious problem, also, with sharing unfinished works with people. It's like slicing off a little portion of your heart and laying it out in all its bloody glory for people to ogle. Webs, outlines, all that crap is like slopping the whole enchilada down for the world to criticize before it's even been written, and I like to be my first (and hardest) critic. Things that work with a particular writer's style sound stupid in synopsis. I used to despise when people would hear that I had written an x-hundred page story and ask, "What's it about?" You seriously think that I can summarize 700 pages in less than a minute for you? Less than thirty seconds even? (Because after that, I know you'll stop paying attention.) For my longest story (700 pages, size 10 TNR font, single-spaced, normal margins), I used to say, "It's about a guy and his life." To go any further would take an hour and probably wouldn't sell the story very well. No one knows that I'm writing this story, so luckily, no one asks about it, and I am allowed to write in peace.

Now I know why Fëanor worked in secret, alone.

I won't see Bobby until about 9:30 tonight: I have skating class and he is going to the Nationals' game with some friends from work. He was really cute in asking if he could go, as though he required permission to see his friends. I appreciate the courtesy, though; however, I certainly don't have a problem with a bunch of g-men going to a ball game. As long as they're not going to a strip bar to pick up whores. (I wouldn't even care if he went to a strip bar, but I'd have to go with him. Hehe.)

As for skating class, we shall see how well I remember the choreography that I meticulously wrote out yesterday. Hopefully, all will go well. It should. I have new toe-stoppers, so I don't have to worry about breaking one and breaking a leg. (Although I could still break a leg from sheer clumsiness or a piece of crap someone left on the floor. Aren't I a bright and happy positive thinker?) I have to practice my uber jump combination and sit spins out of an right inside 3-turn too. So we shall see....

Okay, I have a project to "gussy up" for the Employee "Appreciation" Day on Monday. (For which I have to waste a quarter tank of gas at $2.30 a gallon, sit in traffic, and probably have nothing to eat--like last year--because our "diverse" agency doesn't anticipate that some people might have a problem with chomping down on the flesh of beasts. But I am sure that is a diatribe for another day.) Anyway, I have a feeling that Johnny's expectations involve some kind of dumb, unreadable fonts. Hopefully no clip art! God, my dad would smack me senseless if he knew that I use garish fonts and clip art. I only do what I'm told! Honestly!

So I'd better go do that.
Grumblingly yours,
Medium Dawn Felagund of the Fountain

Fifteen minutes later...
Well, I managed to avoid both clip art and garish fonts, through my gentle counsel, although there is a hodgepodge of misfit logos at the top of the brochure. Well, at least there's not those damned abstract-art-looking handcuffs that make it onto every DPP document. I should be grateful for the small things, right?
MDFotF

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