Dear Muse,

Why must you sit on that lounge chair sipping margaritas and laughing at me in your oh-so-coquettish, and yet somehow silvery, voice, the one laced with irony at the fact that you sprinkle me with creative glitter only at the most inopportune times.

Three in the morning, Muse dahling, is not the time at which you should gift me with thoughts and ideas, nor should you remove all my excitement and imagination during the entire long stretches of day and afternoon, which are set aside for just such visitations.

Why can't you gift me with a little bit of Plot to temper the Characters who spring to life fully formed when you arrive, and dance mockingly around me after you leave, because I have no idea how to arrange decent verbal choreography?

Why, I ask. Why?

Must I become a curmudgeonly alcoholic in Hemingwayesque fashion, or would you prefer that I lock myself away from the sum of all humanity like a Victorian spinster who churns out tome after tome (all in three-part novels, of course)?

I can't even threaten to hide the key to the liquor cabinet so that your debauchery will at least be sober, not drunken, for you have the gall to not even be REAL, but only a fantasy whom I blame for lack of talent, if not lack of drive and ambition.

But here's a threat, oh Muse of mine, that you would do well to heed: I could return to corporate America, wear business drag and spend money on weekly manicures instead of subscriptions to Writer's Digest, and then where would you be?

Oh, don't tell me.
I already know.

You'd be partying with some midwestern housewife who would end up making a fortune writing edgy mysteries while her kids are at soccer practice and ballet lessons.

And I'd STILL have your laughter echoing in my brain.

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Tagged by , I offer the following 20 random things about me:

1. I am not a morning person, unless being up until three AM on a regular basis counts.
2. I read a lot. Want proof? My bookblog is at Zenitopia.com.
3. I don't speak fluent Italian, but when I speak Spanish, I do it with an Italian accent.
4. A part of me still wants to live in 1920's Paris.
5. I'm a sucker for old movie musicals. Especially when they include Danny Kaye.
6. I have an art supply fetish, but I don't know how to draw.
7. I don't like used books – they smell funny.
8. And yet, I appreciate it when a friend gives me one of her old books, because I know I've been given a personal treasure.
9. I really don't drink as much coffee as I let people think I do. I've even cut my Starbucks visits to once or twice a week.
10. I can't sleep with the bedroom door open.
11. I love cool shoes, but I live in flip-flops and sneakers.
12. My favorite pen, for every day use, is the Sarasa retractable roller ball, in navy blue. If it came in fine-point I'd be deliriously happy.
13. I don't like to write much any more (as in actually write, with a pen, not as in compose pieces of writing), because carpal tunnel has caused my handwriting to deteriorate so much that I'm embarrassed.
14. Last night, I bought two Silhouette novels for 'research' purposes. I want to write one.
15. My favorite ice cream flavors are macapuno (it's a kind of coconut) and green tea – not together, though.
16. I don't like animation.
17. I love radio plays. I think they make the listener use their imagination to enhance the experience.
18. I love movies and books about storms, sharks, ships, and the sea.
19. As much as I miss living in a more urban environment, I'm sort of glad I don't.
20. I fantasize about buying an island and starting my own country, but really, I'd rather live in a small coastal village with good coffee and a great bookstore. Someday…

I've been told to tag people, but I'm not into that, so, if you wanna do this, go ahead. :)

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The power outage in Los Angeles earlier today knocked my webhost off the planet. Truly, they did a great job of bringing things back, but I was without email for the bulk of the day, and blogless until about 12 minutes ago.

I never realized how many minutes are devoted to blogsurfing, until I lost access to my blogroll.

Truly, having a husband who works in the industry helped – he explained how I could be certain the problem was THEM and not ME, and then reminded me of what was really wrong. It's stuff I sort of know anyway, but I don't use the information on a daily basis, so I tend to forget details.

The worst part of the day? The last ninety minutes when I could ftp into my site and SEE the files, but apache hadn't been started, so there was no actual web access.

Despite this, I still love DreamHost to bits.

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I can hear his breathing as I fall asleep with his tiny furry body curled up against my abdomen. He seems so small at night, not that he's ever large, but when he's sleeping, when he's all curled up, I realize just how tiny he really is.

He shifts, when I turn over, waking just enough to re-settle against the small of my back. His breathing changes slightly, and while I can't see him, I can tell he's doing a visual perimeter patrol of the room. Just in case.

When morning comes, he is tucked beneath my armpit, breathing in that nearly unnoticable way that small dogs do when they're resting. My hand, left outside the protection of covers, is an icicle, and I have to move him to claim the warmth of blankets. Not such a bad thing, as I have to pee, anyway.

Instantly awake, he jumps from the bed before I'm even sitting up completely, and I pad barefoot into the bathroom. I know from the jingle of tags and his soft doggy 'ooof!' that he'll be curled up in my spot when I return.

Indeed he is. I scoop him into my arms, and bury my nose in his ruff – the fur at the nape of his neck – he smells vaguely of cinnamon and honeysuckle, and not at all like a dog. I scratch his ears and tell him he's a good boy, and then put him back on the bed, where he presses himself into the gap between Fuzzy's pillows and mine. (My husband, it should be noted, sleeps soundly through all of this.)

I reclaim my spot on the bed, lying on my side, and facing the windows, not the dog. He reaches out with a single tiny paw, and places it on my shoulder, reminding me of his presence, and then he sighs softly, and his tags jingle, and I know he's resting his chin on the corner of my pillow.

Sleep carries us both to dreamland, where I sit in a cafe and sip coffee with Dorothy Parker. I wonder what he dreams about. Probably cheesy treats and warm sunny decks to lie upon. Or maybe, just maybe, a pillow of his own.

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Frances Norris

Julia Daniel is a food-stylist who really wants to be a photographer, and who has recently lost her father and stepmother in a plane crash (her mother had died years before), which event spurs her to examine her life. She hates her boss, she's not dating, and she's unsatisfied with her career, all of which are fairly typical for fictional characters in their thirties.

But while Blue Plate Special does include the usual chick-lit standards of the perfect guy and the supportive friend, as well as the mother-surrogate from childhood friend, it strays from the genre in that the happy ending is still a bit out of reach at the end of the novel – it will come, but not instantly.

While I enjoyed the book, I'm really bored with women in books who are only happy when in a relationship, not just happy in themselves.

Permalink at Zenitopia.com

My brain feels as if it's shrouded in grey gauze, protected, somehow, from thinking deep thoughts today.

I woke, disoriented, from a dream in which I was waiting for college acceptance letters ⓠthat hasn't been part of my life for almost twenty years ⓠbut in my dream, the thing that was most vivid was the décor of the dorm room ⓠcolor coordinating bedsets and computer systems. Well, why not?

When I let the dogs into the yard's humid warmth, I noticed that there was no pattern of sunshine on the patio. Like my brain, the sun, too, is shrouded today.

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While Fuzzy sat and watched the usual Friday evening Sci-Fi Channel fare, and I listened to it, catching glimpses now and then, I also mixed and chopped, beat and blended, stirred, and smoothed, adding vanilla here and half a cup of Ghirardelli ground cocoa powder there, until finally, there was a chocolate cake with chocolate-walnut filling, and chocolate frosting, a belated birthday dessert for my favorite guy.

Somewhat ironically, we did not manage to eat any of it last night, but will have its flavor to anticipate all day, while we drive a rescued dog part-way home.

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Saw this in ' LJ:

Javier Grillo-Marxuach (), writer and supervising producer of LOST, and all-around excellent person) will donate $5.00 to the American Red Cross Katrina relief efforts for every person who links to his post.

Just link to him, then comment in his post that you linked.

Link Here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/chaodai/30592.html

(And for the record, Martha Wells writes really cool sci-fi/fantasy novels and you should all buy her books. :) )

Amy of BeautyJoyFood is hosting a collection of NOLA-themed blog entries (well, links to them, anyway), in an effort to help increase donations to the Red Cross (see banner), in the wake of Katrina. I think it's pretty cool of her to put her blog to use that way, and would like to encourage folks to go to the roundup post and either submit their own entries, or just read the existing contributions.

* * * * *
Half-Heard Thoughts (100 Words)
Half-watching â“ I was reading, and mainly listening to the show – Charlie Rose last night, I heard a Southern author say that while a rebuilt New Orleans can never be the same as the previous incarnation, change of some kind is inevitable â“ the pre-Katrina version of the city is not the same city as the 2004 or 1994 version, but the differences are more subtle, and came more slowly, and without such drama.

None of this is meant to make light of the situation, but, I think itâ™s a perspective worth considering, and a notion that is laced with hope.

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âœHi, I'm Michael, I'll be your sonographer today,â he greeted me, in a tone not unlike Julie announcing she is your cruise director, though his curls were natural, I'm certain.

I followed him into the dimly lit ultrasound room, exchanged my t-shirt and loose black pants for a stunning cotton gown with blue ties at the back, and the heady scent of bleach issuing from the fibers, and then took my place on the exam bed.

While he squirted my stomach with warm gel, and then took pictures of my internal organs, we chatted about children's literature, and hurricane victims. At the end, he assured me that I do not have appendicitis, and left me with the oddest compliment ever: âœYou have pretty ovaries.â

And I do.
I've seen the pictures.

Permalink at MissMeliss.com