I haven’t been to the library in years, and I’m itching for a trip to one, because free books are never a bad idea. Except of course that when it comes to me and libraries, the books are never free, because I’m not good about honoring The Date. You know the one. It’s either printed on a receipt, or stamped on a card, or, if you’re in a very old library in a very small town, handwritten on the manila card holder pasted into the back cover of a book. The due date. Only, I’ve always treated them more like…guidelines. Suggestions on when books should be returned.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t finish the books I check out. There were times in my life, as late as five years ago, when I’d come home from the library with a bag of books so thick I couldn’t carry them all, only to have read every last one by the end of the weekend, but then we’d have something come up, and we wouldn’t make it back to the library, and we’d find ourselves, six weeks later, approaching the after hours book depository slot under cover of darkness, clad in black, and hoping beyond hope no one would SEE us returning long overdue books in such a fashion.

I always pay my fines though. I like to think of them as “donations to the library” rather than a penalty for not observing The Date.

Written for Sunday Scribblings.

Taken from TechnoCowboy

Rules:

1. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote become the title of your album.

3. www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Click to embiggen

It may be nearly noon, and I may be swamped with work, but I took a moment to go check the mail, and I’m glad I did, because not only was there a letter from my mother, on the spiffy note cards I gave her for Christmas, but there were also two – TWO – free mail envelopes from soldiers.

One was from one of my officials, and included the questionnaire asking for stuff, and a thank you note and his email address, and the other was from one of the guys from my Christmas card list. Funny guy. Handwriting like an engineer – very precise, and done in foolscap.

In other news, a friend complained about her computer and that reminded me of laptop rental services, and I wondered if, now that you can’t bring electronics in-cabin on flights from the US to England, those sorts of services are booming overseas. With flash drives holding so much data now, it almost makes sense to rent whatever you need and have one less thing to carry.

(I offered to rent her one of mine; she declined.)

And finally, I just emailed myself the final structure for my Cafe book. Now I just need to finish writing it. Five short stories. Interconnected.

I need coffee now.

A bit of what I wrote for this month’s Cafe Writing prompt:

“Race you to the jetty!” I yell and take off without checking to see if Sam is running or not. I don’t much care if I win, I just love the way the sand feels under my bare feet, warm at the surface, then colder beneath, and I love the way the blood surges in my veins as my legs move and my arms pump.

Breathless, the wind and ocean in my ears, face, and hair, I can’t really hear his footfalls, but I can feel his presence a little bit behind me, closer to the surf. Just as in the scene from Atalanta, we reach the jetty together, and sprawl in the sand near the slate blue rocks.

You can read the rest here.

Like celebrities to drug rehabs, ladybugs have been flocking to my house this winter. The first few showed up in December. A light bulb flickered out in the kitchen, and when I looked up I saw several red and black beetles spaced between the high-hats on the kitchen ceiling.

Since our return from Mexico, more have arrived. I found one crawling up my ankle a few nights ago while I was in the living room, saw three inside the arched window in the top of the house, and twice different ladybugs were caught in the vortex of the ceiling fan in our bedroom.

Ladybug lore says that if you find one in your house in winter, you’ll have good luck.

Here’s hoping.

Where are our lives?
If there is no dream
Where is our home?

We don’t know how
There will be a way
Out of the storm
We will find home
— Kate Bush, “Lyra,” The Golden Compass

We went to see The Golden Compass at the UA theater at the end of our street, which theater we never go to because it’s twenty years old, and doesn’t have stadium seating, but since we were away during most of the December movie watching period, and the alternative was to drive to a theater in Dallas, which neither of us was inclined to do since it wasn’t an IMAX movie, we chose this. When we got there, we were pleasantly surprised to find that all shows between 4 and 6 are only $4. So hey, cheap tickets, nearly empty auditorium, and clean bathrooms all added up to a decent experience.

The movie itself was…well…I didn’t hate it, but even though I’ve only read the first book in the series, and even though that was six months ago (it seems) I was a bit disoriented by the shuffling of scenes. As many other readers of the novels are, I’m also disappointed that the last part of the book was chopped off, leaving the movie feeling incomplete.

Editing issues aside, I don’t have a major issue with the composite characters replacing a few of the originals, and I like the casting and the CGI animals, but it drives me crazy when movies that really aren’t childish are packaged as childrens’ films. This could have been better done.

After the film, we made trips to Barnes and Nobel, where I got books two and three and some comforting TrekFic, and Taco Bell, for weekend junk food. We watched last night’s episode of Stargate Atlantis, and now, I’m curled up with dogs and pillows and cold medicine and a comfort book, and Fuzzy’s upstairs playing computer games, and while this isn’t a very exciting evening on the surface, it’s good that we both know where home is.

I gave up on trying to find words or woo my muse, and went to soak in a hot bubble bath, which is apparently just what I needed because while I was reclining against my chenille bath pillow reading about three generations of Swedish mothers and daughters, I realized that I needed to stop whining about inspiration, and just write.

To that end (and with thanks to a LiveJournal friend who mentioned the community) I’ve become a member of Novel in 90, which is a writing community designed for people who have jobs and lives and don’t fit into the NaNoWriMo mold. There are no forums to distract you, you are encouraged to work on multiple projects, and meet other deadlines, while still averaging 750 words/day of your novel in question. The word-count posts (daily and weekly) are the only real accountability – mockery if you don’t meet your goal the only penalty. It’s just enough external motivation for someone like me who doesn’t want to be bothered chatting or attending parties, and writes every day ANYWAY.

I’m not certain it will help. But it’s a new year, and it seemed like a good idea.

Estás perdiendo el tiempo
Pensando, pensando
Por lo que más tú quieras
¿Hasta cuándo? ¿Hasta cuándo?

I have written in the blog, and written for work, but with the exception of a scene I wrote the other night, then tossed, I haven’t written anything for myself since before Christmas. Oh, I participated in Holidailies, and one of my entries, Resting States, even made it to the “Best of…” list, but I feel stale, and in need of a jump-start.

I like that I’m making money from writing, but I feel stale, and tired, and while I know part of that is just post-holiday let-down, and another part is lack of sleep, worry over my dog, and nursing a cold/flu thing, another part is that I can’t connect with my muse. I feel like she’s flirting with me, and answering a coy “Perhaps,” when I ask if she’ll return.

This isn’t a plea for inspiration, so much as a venting of old air.

But if you see my muse, tell her there’s chocolate involved if she returns.