When the ship runs out of ocean, and the vessel runs aground, land's where we know the boat is found
Ravens in the Library I've pre-ordered my copy. You should too; it really looks great, and you won't find it in Big Box Bookstores, from what I can tell.
So then; Project Unload The Bookshelves is better than half-complete. We have three of the six-footers, and three of the three-footers left. All the rest are gone. It's been fairly amusing to me the number of people who've rung over wanting to know what they look like, what colour they are, and do I have a picture of them... They're FREE coloured! They look like FREE BOOKCASES! And no, you cannot have a picture of them, because time is money, but the bookcases are fecking FREE, dammit! See, that phenomenon right there, is why I don't do free card readings; because when you offer someone something they don't have to pay for, they immediately begin to demand more, and get all picky-choosy about it, but if you make them pay even a pittance for it, the purchase suddenly becomes a bargain, and they're glad to have it. Hence the success of yard sales everywhere.
People are really weird.
So there are about twenty more tubs of books to get upstairs -- or at least as many as we can fit into the guest room, anyhow. Whatever doesn't fit there will go into the workroom by the dining room instead. And there's some nails and hooks yet to get out of the walls, and the ubiquitous kipple that collects in any room where people have actually lived for more than a week -- you know the stuff; pennies, twist ties, rubber bands, bottle caps, pens, and suchlike. Ah, wait. Those are all cat toys, aren't they? Nevermind.
So the cover for Verse Before the Flood is done, and GORGEOUS! I'm starting to get some completed pictures as well, and I am thrilled beyond measure at how this is all coming together! I'm also starting to get a bit cold-footed about it all; some of these pics just blow the accompanying poetry out of the running, IMO... but then I've never really considered my poetry as anything more than a thing I do before this. The songs were sung, but the poetry was just another way of talking, and saying a thing. The idea of publishing a volume hadn't ever crossed my neurons prior to this. So suddenly I find myself comparing my folksy style with other, more polished, more published poets, *CoughSamKatValenteShiraGneilRfrostandso
Doesn't mean I'm going to back out or anything; it's not for me to decide whether the work's good enough. That's for the readers to decide. I just have to trust that they will. And that if they don't like the poems and songs, at least they'll like the pictures that people have put along with them. That's fair, isn't it? *Nods and goes back to obsessing about layout.* I keep telling myself that the poems don't each need wee, bespoke pen doodles at header and footer, really they don't. And I don't need to spend the next couple of weeks doing them all up, either. Not sure I'm entirely convinced, but maybe Dover can knock some sense into me. You never know.
On the drive down to Boston to drop off![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
spiderine's chair and table (and to partake of a truly excellent afternoon of Top Gear and Pasta Bolognese,) Dominus and I listened to Connie Willis' Hugo winning Novella, The Inside Job. It was fun. Not world changing for me, seeing as how it didn't surprise me with the ending, but it wasn't a chore to listen through, and I did get some definite chuckles throughout. It also brought up one of the things I find amusing about skeptics; that they're willing to work just as hard to DISbelieve something as the people they scorn are willing to work to preserve their faith. They're exactly the same as their counterparts, only their extremist delusion runs in the other direction. Instead of admitting that they don't know everything, and that things they don't entirely understand might be afoot in the world, they'd rather find ways to squeeze the events into some form of human fraud, even if the logic they must employ is ridiculously circuitous. You'd think, the way they like to sling about Occam's Razor, they'd notice when it cuts their own nose off, but they never do. They just accuse some medium or psychic of having stolen it for profit. In it's own way, rampant skepticism is as silly as the campiest channeling sideshow. But that might just be me.
So then. I'm off to schlepp some more books about while I try to decide whether to write, or to paint today.
The work on the library begins tomorrow. At LAST!
*Throws confetti weakly.*
So then; Project Unload The Bookshelves is better than half-complete. We have three of the six-footers, and three of the three-footers left. All the rest are gone. It's been fairly amusing to me the number of people who've rung over wanting to know what they look like, what colour they are, and do I have a picture of them... They're FREE coloured! They look like FREE BOOKCASES! And no, you cannot have a picture of them, because time is money, but the bookcases are fecking FREE, dammit! See, that phenomenon right there, is why I don't do free card readings; because when you offer someone something they don't have to pay for, they immediately begin to demand more, and get all picky-choosy about it, but if you make them pay even a pittance for it, the purchase suddenly becomes a bargain, and they're glad to have it. Hence the success of yard sales everywhere.
People are really weird.
So there are about twenty more tubs of books to get upstairs -- or at least as many as we can fit into the guest room, anyhow. Whatever doesn't fit there will go into the workroom by the dining room instead. And there's some nails and hooks yet to get out of the walls, and the ubiquitous kipple that collects in any room where people have actually lived for more than a week -- you know the stuff; pennies, twist ties, rubber bands, bottle caps, pens, and suchlike. Ah, wait. Those are all cat toys, aren't they? Nevermind.
So the cover for Verse Before the Flood is done, and GORGEOUS! I'm starting to get some completed pictures as well, and I am thrilled beyond measure at how this is all coming together! I'm also starting to get a bit cold-footed about it all; some of these pics just blow the accompanying poetry out of the running, IMO... but then I've never really considered my poetry as anything more than a thing I do before this. The songs were sung, but the poetry was just another way of talking, and saying a thing. The idea of publishing a volume hadn't ever crossed my neurons prior to this. So suddenly I find myself comparing my folksy style with other, more polished, more published poets, *CoughSamKatValenteShiraGneilRfrostandso
Doesn't mean I'm going to back out or anything; it's not for me to decide whether the work's good enough. That's for the readers to decide. I just have to trust that they will. And that if they don't like the poems and songs, at least they'll like the pictures that people have put along with them. That's fair, isn't it? *Nods and goes back to obsessing about layout.* I keep telling myself that the poems don't each need wee, bespoke pen doodles at header and footer, really they don't. And I don't need to spend the next couple of weeks doing them all up, either. Not sure I'm entirely convinced, but maybe Dover can knock some sense into me. You never know.
On the drive down to Boston to drop off
spiderine's chair and table (and to partake of a truly excellent afternoon of Top Gear and Pasta Bolognese,) Dominus and I listened to Connie Willis' Hugo winning Novella, The Inside Job. It was fun. Not world changing for me, seeing as how it didn't surprise me with the ending, but it wasn't a chore to listen through, and I did get some definite chuckles throughout. It also brought up one of the things I find amusing about skeptics; that they're willing to work just as hard to DISbelieve something as the people they scorn are willing to work to preserve their faith. They're exactly the same as their counterparts, only their extremist delusion runs in the other direction. Instead of admitting that they don't know everything, and that things they don't entirely understand might be afoot in the world, they'd rather find ways to squeeze the events into some form of human fraud, even if the logic they must employ is ridiculously circuitous. You'd think, the way they like to sling about Occam's Razor, they'd notice when it cuts their own nose off, but they never do. They just accuse some medium or psychic of having stolen it for profit. In it's own way, rampant skepticism is as silly as the campiest channeling sideshow. But that might just be me.So then. I'm off to schlepp some more books about while I try to decide whether to write, or to paint today.
The work on the library begins tomorrow. At LAST!
*Throws confetti weakly.*