Sense of Adventure

… to stand beside me when I write.

When I stop, he’ll ask, “Why?”

If I say, “I’m not sure what happens next,” he’ll nod his bearded head.

If I say, “Well, I just can’t think of the right word - ”

***Zzzap!***

Or if I say, “I don’t know how to end this scene - ”

Brzap!

Or, “I’m not sure this is in character - AIEEE!”

Now, please don’t get the idea I don’t care about my characters staying in character, or the proper ending of scenes, or indeed about getting the right word. These things matter to me a great deal.

But if I let myself worry about these things when I write, I stop myself. Hard. It’s like a hard-charging watchdog hitting the end of his chain.

This - and allied forms of second-guessing myself - is my most destructive habit as a writer. It costs me money and misery.

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But not all by myself.

It’s been wa-a-ay too long since I’ve been walking. Just ask Emma Dog. She’s been keeping me up all night, asking out (or back in) about once an hour. I reckon she’s antsy and bored and needs exercise.

Me too. But what with being sick much of the last almost three months (!) and the late heat spurt, and travel - and a host of other miserable, sniveling excuses - I haven’t been for a walk, nor taken Emma for one, in an age.

Last night I slept pretty well (despite Emma’s alarums and excursions) and woke up with clearer lungs than I’ve had since the flu hit me for real a couple weeks before. I actually … felt good. And I decided that one way or another we would hit the trail today.

Even though we got a later start than intended (what else is new?) the afternoon wasn’t hot, with the rain we’ve gotten the last couple days to break the unusual late-season heat spurt. So, on with the water-bottle carrier (carrying a water bottle, go figure, along with sundry useful items); on with the twelve-buck red Convo knock-offs which are the most comfortable walking shoes I’ve owned for a while, possibly ever; on with the wraparound shield-style UV-resistant shades, and the 8 x 25 Simmons monocular that’s a contender for best $20 I ever spent, in case birds break out; on with the Omron pedometer; on with the sweat-stained tan painter’s cap with New Mexico Land of Enchantment on the front I bought for 69¢ at the thrift store. And out the door we went.

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Bubonicon’s over.

I had a lot of fun. Did the usual con things: got to spend time with old, valued friends and even make some new ones.

Despite being sick with the tail-end of the flu that slammed me after over two months of come-and-go low-grade infection, I had more fun even than usual. Con co-chair Kristen Dorland asked me at the dead dog party (hosted by Milehicon) why I thought that was. I couldn’t really account for it; just the way I felt.

At the post-con dinner I got to talk to Vernor Vinge about the Technological Singularity. How cool is that?

Now I am very tired…

And I’d pay to see it!

No, not this video of a computer-simulated race. Who cares about that?

What I’d pay to see is a video of a T. rex actually running down and devouring an overpaid, has-been Brit soccer star. And I’d like the screen to then switch to his wife, Ubiquitous Spice or whatever the hell her name is, sitting in the stands watching and showing no more emotion than she did when hubby finally scored a goal for American “major league” soccer. Is that so much to ask, in this age of CGI?

Interestingly, the Telegraph article I got that from claims a top speed of 18 mph for the Big T, seven miles an hour less than claimed by the piece that so evoked my ire a couple of months ago. But whereas the Times Online sniffishly dismissed T. rex as a “slow, clumsy beast” for running 25 mph, the Telegraph calls it “no slouch” for doing 18.

Go figure.

(I’m tickled by the subject line because it sounds like the title of an anime. OK, that’s probably just me. Again.)

The Dinosaur Lords has gone on the back burner - also again, sigh - as I strive heroically to wrap up Annja’s latest adventure so I can get started on the new one. This flu thing is less than fun, although it finally seems to be receding. At least last night I didn’t wake up unable to breathe.

None of which prevented an epiphany about DinoLords hitting me whilst I was in the bathtub just now. An environment in which I’m historically at-risk for such things…

Anyway, I was struck like a temple gong just now (and I mean just now: I’m still damp, with a towel over my head) with the right and true way to sum up the novel, and the cycle of which it’s part:

The Renaissance. With dinosaurs.

There you have it.

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Well, this is annoying. The low-grade infection that’s been hanging around like a broke cousin since early June has flared into a full-blown flu. I’m getting some writing done on dear Annja’s adventures. Which is a Good Thing. But I’m not getting any exercise - and poor Emma’s about to go stir-crazy because she isn’t getting her walks.

Frustrated.

I cannot believe this started when I blew out my elbow hoeing weeds in the freaking front yard. If that’s not the definition of ignominious, I need a new damn dictionary.

Ah, well. This too shall pass. Like Peyton Manning. The flu’s already fading, and I think the whole thing is winding down. My right elbow, unbelievably, is a still a little tender, which means I need to hold off a while on getting back to the kettlebells. Or even cat-stretches, which I really like (“Gonna have to face it, you’re addicted to dand.”)

Oh - on a completely unrelated note, I finally took the red pill (or is it the blue?) and signed on for MySpace. You can even, in the unlikely-seeming event you’re not getting enough of a Vic Milán fix, read my blog there, too. (I originally typoed that “glog.” I was tempted to leave it as found art. But it’d only make sense if I drink. Which I don’t. So, alas, babble on…)

Yesterday I swapped out the right left (corrected 8/14/07; no, it’s not just in politics that I can’t tell left from right) rear tire, which of course was flat again, and hied my way hence to Costco, where the kid at the tire shop quite understandably gave me the fish eye. “Where have you been driving?” he asked.

The answer was, nowhere unusual: not to the dump or near construction sites that I know of. But at least in this case the cause of the flat was no huge mystery: there was a Philips-head screw clearly visible when I took it off.

Once again, the Costco tire dept, came through for me and fixed it for free. Like them I still wonder how come I’m having such deuced bad luck with tires?

Today I seem to have the flu. Joy. I’ll stay mostly abed and write Annja’s latest exploits. Gotta get that finished soon.

Just got back from a premiere-weekend showing of Gimme Skelter. Enjoyed it greatly. Scott was kind enough to get me in free, hoping, he said, to hear my laugh in “all the right places.” I trust he did.

It’s a very good low-budget indy film with Scooter’s distinctive (demented) perspective. Billy Garberina did a great job as the not-really-effectual thrill-kill cult leader. Sarah Turner was surprisingly effective as Pajamas, one of his followers, managing to be sexy and scary by turns. In fact most of the cast turned in pretty good performances. Scott even got a good if minor turn from wizard Albuquerque artist Harry O. Morris. (It’s not that I didn’t think Harry could act, it’s that I never imagined he might want to, as shy and reclusive as he is.)

I think Scooter’s due to break out here pretty soon. His wild creativity (and that of the people he manages to gather around him) definitely transcends meager budgets.

The movie’s definitely not for all tastes. There’s gore, general freakiness, and yes, abundant Production Value. But if that doesn’t bother you, definitely check it out.

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Coming home I barely drove two blocks before I realized I had a flat. Pulled into a side-street and refilled it enough to limp home. Rear driver’s-side tire - again. The one I had fixed right before I left for STL.

I seem to be having really bad luck with flat tires. I wonder if there’s something more to it?

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But I won’t let it spoil an excellent day.

That was fun!

Just got back from Patricia Rogers’ and Scott Denning’s house in a beautiful part of the Río Grande valley north of Bernalillo. It’s a wonderful setting: an old rambling adobe house, an enclosed patio out back shaded by an ancient cottonwood tree, open green fields all around. I was lucky enough to get to attend the cast party there for Gimme Skelter, the latest film written and directed by my long-time pal Scott Phillips. While Pat and Scott D. are truly lovely people and the God and Goddess of Hosting, this party was actually hosted by Scott’s partner Jen (who for some inexplicable reason is credited as Jen the Ruiner in the film.)

Aside from the fact I’m friends with Pat and Scott and sundry cast and crew members, I was also invited ’cause my birthday was a week ago Friday. Lucked out there, huh?

Right off the bat I met Gunnar Hansen, a big amiable white-bearded bear guy. It didn’t strike me until shortly thereafter that I’d just shaken hands with Leatherface himself. I’ll admit I’ve never been a colossal fan of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but as I told Mr. Hansen as he was leaving, it’s always a privilege to meet a cultural icon. I also got to meet various other cast and crew folk - altogether a most excellent bunch.

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… courtesy of the Gold Eagle art department - at the hest of their marketing department, I’m guessing.

My author’s copies of my newest Rogue Angel yarn, Secret of the Slaves, hit my front porch while I was off at Archon. If I’d known it was coming I could’ve asked them to ship me some to STL to give out at the con. Ah, well.

I don’t disapprove of the tattoo, not that it’d do me any good if I did. A bit surprising, but there it is. I do kinda like the tan lines they gave her.

On the whole I’d say it’s a pretty good cover (for a larger image, click here).

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