Snapshots From My Domestic Life

Sunday.

Took the overgrown herb garden of doom to task. The biggest of my basil plants is now over 2ft tall. I didn't know basil *grew* to be 2ft tall... Repotted the cilantro, which has proven to be far more delicate than I realized (there's a reason it comes *with* the roots at the grocery store - you can't mess with it *without* tearing it up by the roots).

Wiped down the kitchen, conducted the weekly bathroom cleaning ritual, vaccuumed all of the throw rugs (we have hardwood floors), dusted said hardwood floor in my room (I do all my morning weights and sit-ups standing on a rug on that floor, and it was collecting dust and other bits that I would find stuck to my skin as I took to the shower), reposted some notes of interest regarding futures novels, and reshuffled some of the photos clinging to the hutch over my desk (found the one of me and three high school buddies dressed in sheet-togas in Rome, standing in the balcony and looking in through the door - great pic), stacked all of the agent letters and agent packages I compiled last night and got them ready for sending out tomorrow, prepped my bag of goodies for martial arts class, and etc.

It's a gorgeous day in Chicago - 82 degrees, sunny, slight breeze, no humidity. Absolutley gorgeous. Opted out of my jogging and went on a bike ride instead. I took the Lakeshore trail all the way into downtown (the farthest I've made it thus far - ideally, I'd like to bike as far as Navy Pier and back), and looped back, which I think is just about 10 miles or so. I was really booking it today, enjoying the speed, weaving around pedestrians and getting passed by the most hardcore of roller bladers, watching pro bikers zip by on those delicate little bikes that look like they're made of wire hangers... I stopped at the beach, stuck my toes in the sand, and looked out at the jet skiers, sailboats and motorboats playing out in the lake. Frickin' gorgeous.

A local writing colleague is organizing a couple writing sessions this week at cafes downtown (a bunch of writers take over a coffee shop, drink coffee, giggle to themselves, and type away for four hours). The Saturday group meets a block away from my martial arts school. Meaning: I need to sign up for Saturday classes, take pilates and boxing at the MA school in the morning, then hit the cafe and write from noon to three or four, then head home.

It'd be a productive way to spend a Saturday.

Also looking at the logistics of biking to work again. It's supposedly only 10 miles or so. I just need to wait until I've got the funds available for a helmet, tire patching kit, and portable pump. I think I'm at the point where I'm in good enough shape that I can do it no problem.

Ciao.

If Bush Ran Against Jesus...

Via: Eschaton

If Bush ran against Jesus, his "Bush Approved" ads might look something like this...

Jesus of Nazareth says: "Do not resist one who is evil. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other."

CAN WE TRUST JESUS TO FIGHT THE WAR ON TERROR?

And... We're Out

Working on getting past page 100 of Book Two. Sending out another half dozen agent letters for Book 1 this weekend.

See you all again on Monday!

Boxing Life, 2

Had a mixed boxing class yesterday - had a great partner, was in the mood to hit the shit out of stuff, and felt like I was going to burn and fall over at the end. The "mixed" part was the "burn and fall over at the end" part.

Our MA school was closed on Monday for the holiday, so I went jogging Monday instead, and got my ass kicked more than usual when I came back in for my Weds class. Why aren't I getting better at this?

No, that's not fair. I am, in fact, getting "better," yea, yea, at certain things. But I've got pretty high standards for myself. I know how to throw a hook now (though, not a good one), I know what a boxing stance is (though my movement continues to be way too stiff - I have yet to move into that bouncy, duck-and-weave boxer style of movement), and I can complete my jumproping rounds without feeling like I'm going to die. But I still feel like a damn idiot. This may have to do with the fact that I was once again paired with a great partner. Eddy really pushed me to complete all the punching rounds without pause. He confirmed what several have already said, that I've got a good right cross (I'm not totally hopeless!), and during that last round, I was throwing straight "pushing" punches, driving my mitted partner all the way to the wall. It was invigorating, and it was also painful. I started my new morning routine with those 30lb free weights this week, and driving nonstop punches after already being sore because I'd added more weight to my daily routine... well, damn, I burned up.

I have this deep American dissatisfaction with things that are difficult for me. Being good at anything takes years of practice, a dose of talent, and backbreaking, muscle-burning hard fucking work. You can know this on an intellectual level, but until you're pounding the crap out of somebody's mitts after dancing around the floor for forty minutes of jump rope, abs, and punching combos, well, you don't really know anything about it (how do people do 3-8 hour workouts every day? Ah. That's right. They do it because it's their life). And juggling trying to be not-bad at this with everything else in my life I'm pursuing and want to pursue (I'd planned to take a French class this quarter, but due to lack of funds, I'm putting it off another quarter), I should actually be pleased that I've got a decent right cross.

But I'm fucking ambitious, remember? And I am highly dissatisfied.

Will look into bumping myself up to three days a week beginning in October (Saturday classes have begun). Three days. No more.

Yes, I know I've been hard on myself about limiting this stuff, and I'll tell you the reason: despite all that burning pain, the constant feeling that I'm totally incompetent, the hours of transit time, and the loss of writing time, I have this image of myself being a strong, no-bullshit person. That is, if I get into a bar fight, I want to be able to *fight*, no bullshit. No posturing. No bullying. Just a great right cross.

I Registered to Vote Today!

Have you?

Register to VOTE HERE!

No Shit, Sherlock

CHICAGO, Illinois (Reuters) -- When it comes to heart disease, being fit may be more important than being thin, according to a study of more than 900 women published Tuesday.

"Our study shows that the lack of physical fitness is a stronger risk factor for developing heart disease than being overweight or obese," said Timothy Wessel, a physician at the University of Florida who headed up the research.

Fascinating that their study group was a group of women, isn't it? Particularly because more men suffer from heart disease than women... Once again: can we all just start talking about what all this obesity panic is about? It has about 2% to do with health. Just like invading Iraq had about 2% to do with terrorism.

Can somebody just do an Al Gore and say, "The reason we didn't intervene in the genocide of 2 million people in Rwanda is because we have no economic interests there"?

That would be great.

Sugar and Spice

"I'm just a person trapped inside a woman's body."
- Elaine Boosler

So, somebody finally managed to capture what bugs me about the whole "save the rights of the fertilized egg" movements.

I can't really say when I understood that telling women what to do with their bodies was wrong. Probably when I was very young, when my parents instilled in me the belief that my body was mine, and it was my right to decide who touched it, when, and where, and that I had an inherent right to be free from physical abuse of any kind. Pain, if I should decide to endure it, would come from decisions I made, and should not come from something or someone imposed upon me against my will.

These are basic human rights that many of us are taught when young.

But the older I got, the more I realized that when most people discussed "people" they didn't mean "women."

Babies do not appear from thin air. My conception of birth and babies and what it takes to create a human being came from several sources. One the experiences which contributed to my views was watching an aunt who struggled for many years to get pregnant, and repeatedly miscarried before the third month of each pregnancy. This was when I learned that babies couldn't live outside of their mothers until at least the sixth month, after being nourished by their mothers into selfhood as a fully capable being that could breathe on its own. A child still needed the nurturance of a mother after birth, nursing and diapering and socializing. And the addition of a child into a household (as I learned with the addition of two younger siblings) meant 9 months of work undertaken by my mother, followed by a total and complete change not only in the dynamics of my household, but changes that would continue for the rest of my life and the lives of my family members. The decision to carry a pregnancy to term was not one to be undertaken lightly. My mother worked through all of the benefits and drawbacks when she became pregnant for the third time, and after carefully weighing her options, decided to invest her time, her body, her energy, her conception of self, the dynamics of her family, to go through with the creation of another child. Across the street, my sister and I were friends with a clan of six children whose mother perscribed to a religion that prohibited her use of birth control and instilled in her and her children the absolute rights of the father (including, I later realized, sex on demand and some tricky domestic violence. This is usually what the euphemism "obey thy husband" or "grant a husband his marriage rights" really means). I watched this stern-faced woman nurture and then birth child number seven. She, too, had weighed her options: 1) expulsion from her church and family for using birth control 2) abuse from her husband (whom she was financially dependent upon) for denying him "conjugal rights."

She "chose." Her child didn't grow on a tree, either. Neither did her husband's super sperm coagulate into a living, breathing, child all on its own. No matter what Aristotle or other slavery advocates say.

As Amanda said, "They don't call it labor for nothing, folks. In that view, when you force someone to labor against her will, it's slavery."

Now, I'm not going to take on religion here. I'm not going to point out that the vast majority of women and men who oppose rights to abortion and contraception do so because of religious beliefs (usually of one Christian denomination or another, in this country). I'm not going to do that because I'm a tolerant person: if you grow up in strict patriarchal religion and have no interest in leaving - or better yet, go out into the world, meet people with lots of different beliefs, discover other modes of thinking and doing and being - and you still decide pledging your body to Jesus Christ is the thing to do.. Hey, GO FOR IT!! That's what freedom is, right?

Choosing?

Yea. That's what I thought. We live in America because we have more choices. Because as a woman, you're free to choose to devote your life to bearing and raising children, volunteering, helping others, having a career, creating movies, writing books, being a CEO, getting married (your only marriage option right now, if you're a woman, is to marry a man. Sorry. We're working on that one), joining up with a female domestic partner (with or without sex - as you choose), being a lawyer, and if you're really, really ambitious, you're free to do any and all of those things and more all at once or all in a row. And it's No One Else's Right to limit those choices or to tell you you *can't* do any or all of them.

Why do I believe I'm allowed to control my own fertility?

Um.

Because, I'm a person? Because we've got these rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

I went to school with teenage girls who chose to have children while still in high school because they believed abortion was "wrong," and they were clueless about both birth control and the sort of responsibilities inherent in birthing and raising a child. So they went through with it. Women who were going to do and be all sorts of things (all at once or in a row) ended up with their highschool boyfriends, usually the ones who drank too much, remained unemployed for long stretches, fucked around, and resented them for "getting knocked up" (like they just layed there), and they felt trapped into only one narrow role, not neccessarily the one they would have chosen if they viewed abortion as a "choice" and had a proper understanding of contraception. Women's work is hard work. Having children is hard work. Having children at the wrong time, however, can compromise your choices, your education, and will utterly change the course of your life. Forever.

There's no "do over." The decision to have children or not have children is a huge one. And because women's eggs divide to create cells, and those cells are nourished by a woman's body to create more complex cell structures, and those become the lungs, the heart, the tadpole-like-appendages that become legs and etc. because a child is created of a woman's body, the decision whether or not to expend her bodies resources in the creation of that child's body is her decision.
Yes. Hers.

Women are not vessels. We are not, as several boys in my high school theatre department enjoyed putting it, "Sperm dumpsters." Co-opting my body and telling me what to do with it is nothing short of slavery. Telling me my only option upon receiving the sacred male sperm is to spend nine months of my life expending my body's resources: enduring swollen ankles that slow my walk, back pain that more often than not leaves me in bed during any hour I can afford it, insomnia, nausea and vomiting, the expending of my body's blood, cellular energy, my body's breath, my body's nutrients, and at the end of it, asking me to spread my legs to strangers and violently birth a child in a gush of blood and pain, putting me at risk of death, leaving me with sore, aching, leaking breasts and a child whose ultimate care: feeding, changing, socializing, comfort, all rest solely on me - FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE (good luck finding that sperm donor... hate to break it to you, ladies, but the same people who think you're just a vessel put that child and its success or failure in this world solely on your shoulders), *making* me endure that as my "punishment" for engaging in vaginal intercourse with a male partner (who is more often than not coercive in his attempts at ejaculatory vaginal intercourse, because we've determined that procreative sex is the only form of "real sex." ha) is the ultimate in repressive bullshit. It takes away my agency. It reduces me to a body, to body parts, to a sperm dumpster.

The biggest fears around the female control of her own sexuality aren't really to do with birthing children anyway. Let's fess up to that right now. A woman controlling her own sexuality, her reproductive potential, is the most powerful person in the world. Choosing when, with whom, and how many (if any) children she has, a woman also has the power to control a *man's* fertility (yes, that's right! See, now you can see why this pisses people off so much!). She can choose to nurture the child of her body in her womb - it just so happens that egg's division is initially sparked by receiving half a man's DNA. The big complaint in Rome (and in many societies whose upper-class women had knowledge of and access to contraception) was that educated, upper-class women often chose to have no more than two children. The Roman government introduced tax incentives in order to convince women to undergo the birth of a child that killed 1/4 of all of the women who engaged in it.

Women chose not to.

We. Women.

Women. Yes. Women. I will say again: Women.

Men have figured this out. They figured this out a long time ago, and there's an argument that the oppression of women in most (NOT all, but most) societies we know today began when men figured this out. The backlash against the femenist movement in the 60s and 70s happened because people in power realized just what would happen if women 1) had control of their sexuality (which, theoretically, happened with the advent of the Pill and the legalization of doctor-assisted abortion) 2) had their own source of income (the vast majority of women who stay with abusers do so for financial reasons 3) had confidence in their intellect, their bodies, and were physically and psychologically able to defend themselves from attack (ever wonder why women are pushed so violently into hating their bodies and thinking they're weak and stupid?).

Why do I get harrassed on the street? Why do/did I get called fat? Why do/did men threaten me with physical violence?

Because I'm a smart women. I'm a physically strong woman (I am the hieght of the average American man, and I weigh more than the average man). I have a wide knowledge of contraception and venereal diseases, including the prevention of such diseases (which limits the number of people I permit in my bed).

Why do women "get" this power over men's procreation (because really, let's be clear, men aren't thinking about life, they're thinking about how women's agency affects a man's access to women's bodies)?

Because women make the babies.

If a guy wants my ovum and wants to mix it with some sperm in his palm and see what happens, I'll likely say, "Please, by all means, do so" (though I'll likely charge him for it).

He can keep it in a jar and name it.

Until then, oh lovely boys I adore and women who seek to please them, keep your opinions about "life" to yourself (I'm not arguing with religious people - that's another issue. I'm primarily addressing those who argue that we should limit women's choices and do not stand on man-made pseudo-religious doctrine, the argument against which is already pretty obvious in the ajective "man-made").

Cells do not divide and grow into a human being without the life of a woman. There's no life without women.

Consigning women to slavery and calling if "preserving life" is bogus. "Preservation of life" and "saving children" isn't the real issue. Not when we live in a country where women (in many states) are denied prenatal care, adequate monetary assistance, and refused health care for the children they actually choose to bring to term, birth, and raise. The state of child education and child social services, child care, and etc. in this country is deplorable. Worrying about some eggs because they're carrying around half a guy's DNA isn't about Life. It's about half a guy's DNA.

Let's be honest. I'm not a Republican, so I can't speak spin.

If we're going to have this discussion about control over a woman's fertility, let's discuss what it's *really* about. It's about men's laws controlling a woman's body and her ability to create and nurture children. It's the same old bullshit. If this was about life, we'd be talking a hell of a lot more about a woman's life and what it means to her to choose to have children when and with whom she chooses. We'd be talking about protecting women from sexual predators, teaching men how to *not* be sexual predators (reminding them that women are people too), protecting women from abusive "partners," teaching men that violence against women and each other *isn't* commendable, educating everybody about what psychological abuse is, teaching women to value their minds and bodies without seeking approval from overwhelmingly male gazes, teaching men that their gazes don't mean shit, and paying for everybody's college education.

Instead, we're talking about dividing cells.

We're taking the hugest thing a woman can do that a man can't and trivializing it. Making it "natural" and "inevitable" and taking away a woman's agency so it looks like it's a woman's destiny to spend her entire breeding window barefoot and pregnant. And by saying it's a woman's destiny to be pregnant, you're trivializing what that means, what that is, what kind of power that is, to knowingly choose to bear children. You do a disservice to women who choose to stay home and take care of children, and women who choose to not to. You invalidate my personhood by dismantling me into random body parts in service to half a man's DNA.

Taking away a woman's *choice* takes away the most beautiful thing about children: that they are wanted, loved, and nurtured with the full understanding of what it means to do so. Pain withstood, decisions made, because you *want* to do something as opposed to *having* to do something is a different sort of pain, and a different sort of decision.

It has to do with free will.

Life, liberty, happiness.

All that bullshit. Remember?

Vote for us or DIE!!!

I can't believe he said this. No, really, I can't believe it. To some extent, all my ranting about the current presidential administration has been somewhat restrained. I really, truly believed that they believed that they were doing the right thing. Mostly. Mostly, they believed it. Now I'm just... I'm just... I'm living in a fucking totalitarian regime.

Where are my UN voting inspectors? I want one in every city. At every polling station.


Here it is:

DES MOINES, Iowa (AP) - Vice President Dick Cheney on Tuesday warned Americans about voting for Democratic Sen. John Kerry, saying that if the nation makes the wrong choice on Election Day it faces the threat of another terrorist attack.

The Kerry-Edwards campaign immediately rejected those comments as "scare tactics" that crossed the line.

"It's absolutely essential that eight weeks from today, on Nov. 2, we make the right choice, because if we make the wrong choice then the danger is that we'll get hit again and we'll be hit in a way that will be devastating from the standpoint of the United States," Cheney told about 350 supporters at a town-hall meeting in this Iowa city.

I don't care if he qualified this statement afterwards. Really, I don't. Cause this is the core of the Culture of Fear. Eliminate democracy with Fear. Eliminate all Choices With Fear.

Think you're free? No, you're just afraid.

Road Work

By adding on another couple dozen yards every time I go jogging, I'm now up to 2.72 miles per jogging session (trying to get these to twice a week).

The goal is to top out at 3 miles, three times a week. I've set myself some top-out limits for the fitness stuff. No more than 3 miles, 3 times a week for jogging (or 4 miles, two times a week), and no more than 3 days a week of martial arts, no matter how many years I do it or how well I progress. Also, now that I'm at 30lb free weights for my morning routine, I've set myself a 50lb free weight limit. I want to have a comfortable "set" point for my fitness level - sufficiently high so I have a long way to go to get there, but "low" enough that I'm not going to be an obsessive who's always miserable because I can't get to the "next level." Fitness is great, but I've got these other things that need to take priority. Having a ceiling on the fitness stuff helps me focus.

Am currently reviewing another paper for my Ph.D-candidate buddy. I am living my academic life vicariously through him.

Damn, I need to put some damn stories in the damn mail. I'm going home and having a beer. It's funny how my life works: everything can come together for me, but I'm in a constant critique of the things that can be better. I've heard that ambitious people are more prone to fits of dissatisfaction: we have higher standards; every time we hit a goal, we make a higher one. Or, in my case, the goals are just always outrageously high. The stuff in-between (like, say, now) are just the steps I need to take to get there.

I'll look at it this way: my healthiness means I'll live longer, so I'll have time to write more books.

Yea, I've been in a writing rut for the last week.

More later. The blogosphere ceases to amuse me at the moment.

Boys are Great

via thisgirl:



Boys are great.

Speaking of boys, there's an interesting discussion over at BuzzMachine about what a "terrorist" really is... Are Chechens rebels, freedom fighters, or terrorists? What should our media be calling them?

Who decides?

I've dipped a toe in, but I'm not sure I want to dive.

The Body Project

My buddy and roomie, Jenn, and I were walking out to dinner the other night, and I was ranting about a paper one of my buddies and colleagues had just sent me (among many others) to review before his presentation at the Cultures of Violence seminar in England at the end of the month. I was being lively and animated, as the subject - the culture of violence in South Africa, its roots and reprecussions - is one I'm really interested in, and touched a little on my own work regarding female ANC members and their relationships to violence during the 80s and 90s.

As we paused at a stop light, Jenn turned to me and said, "You know, why aren't you going to those African Studies seminars at U of Chicago that Bernard invited you to when you first got here? You've been leaving work early all week. Why not head south and join in the discussions?"

Here followed my usual excuses, "It's on Tuesdays. I have Tuesday prep to do on Tuesday, you know, it's the day between martial arts classes. And with work, I never know when we'll be busy again.... and..."

"But Kameron, you're prepared to add another jogging day and *another* Saturday workout day to your schedule. Why not go to the seminars? You just seem so happy right now, talking about history and South Africa and cultures of violence."

Ah.

I flashed back to an anecdote from Paul Compos' The Obesity Myth: a highly successful female lawyer, who'd been on various boards, edited various publications, and was pulling a substantial salary, confided that the time in her life when she felt the most accomplished were those moments when she briefly (often for no more than a few months) "acheived" her "goal weight."

Arg.

A woman's biggest accomplishment. Bigger than law school. Money. Mate. Children. Friends. Publications. Professional esteem.

Her waistline was her biggest accomplishment.

Can you imagine asking a male CEO what he felt his biggest accomplishment was, and getting that answer?

Here I am, investing in 30lb free weights this week (up from 20lbs), getting ready to spend another $24 a month to add another day a week of martial arts classes, finding another day a week to squeeze in a jogging session... and in the mean time, I've been banging my head against a novel no one else seems to be interested in, I only have four stories in the mail (instead, of say, my top-out of 14), and I keep staring at Ph.D. programs in Women's Studies and thinking, "Shit, I'm just not up for *that*! Think of the pay cut!"

The pay cut. Of all things.

Gawd.

See what getting all comfy with the system gets you? A body that will always be imperfect, as standards of beauty always change, an obsession with whole-wheat pitas, and the ability to lift 100lbs above your head.

Useful? Only if I'm carrying buddies out of a raging fire. And there are no pitas about.

I'm currently reading Joan Jacobs Brumberg's The Body Project, a history of women's relationships with their bodies, sexuality, and the meaning of being female from, roughly, the 1890s to the 1990s. Brumberg uses adolescent girls' diaries to gauge differing attitudes about mensturation, acne, and the virtues of "being a woman" over the last 100 years. What she's beginning to show is the progression from conceptions of female beauty in forms of virtue and good works, to having fine skin, a robust disposition, and now, an increasing obsession with the size and shape of the actual physical body without the aid of undergarments. As corsets and girdles went by the wayside, the sculpting of the body has become the signifier of a woman's beauty and success. Moving through merely obsession over calories in the 1920s, when the "flapper" style became popular (it was a style that meant not wearing a girdle, yet having a skinny, boyish physique - oddly around the same time women got the vote in America. hm.), to the obsession with fitness and later toned, muscular female bodies (like Madonna) today. Our obessessions are now becoming increasingly medicalized (plastic surgery) as undergarments (the private) are thrown out in favor of the skin of the body itself as the undergarment (though I think most people would wonder what on earth the skin is keeping private. If anything at all).

It's been fascinating watching this romp through obsessions with various bits of the female form. It's never the actual woman that's all wrong, it's just her "parts," as if we women are a Frankensteinian assemblage of inadequate appendages (It's interesting that Shelley's Frankenstein created a male monster and not a female: because the writer was female, perhaps?). But the overall impression I'm left with, after trolling through bits of diaries, is this:

This is an amazing expenditure of female energy. Obsessing over calories, over "incorrect" body parts, huge thighs, small breasts, etc. etc.

What could we be doing with this energy, instead?

All of us. Every single one. If I halted my own body project at its subsistence "health" level right now, if I didn't try and overdo it, make it into my own personal obsession to the extent of everything else, if I kept myself in check and didn't apologize to people who look me up and down and say, "You do all that? You really eat that way? Then why aren't you thin?" If I instead loop myself back into the land of the living, focus again on acadamia, push the writing forward, leave the martial arts to casual recreation, and remind myself that trekking up to Macchu Picchu really isn't until 2007.... If I do all that, what sort of amazing person could I be?

Eliminate the body project, the depression and angst about eating whip cream with those strawberries, the needless sleepless nights worrying "If I ache so much and work so hard, why aren't I thin?", if I eliminate those nights and push them back to studying for the GREs, going over graduate school applications, researching programs, and getting these goddamn stories in the mail, well, hell... I might be able to beat the self-hate cycle and be really damn cool. Because I think it's not neccessarily increasing my martial arts classes that's the problem. It's the motivations behind it. I need to clean up my motivations.

As my buddy Jenn said, after I took up wall climbing on Sundays in addition to those boxing classes, "When you're 30, Kameron, you're going to be really scary."

I hope so.

And I hope my smart, brutal woman self remains not only physically strong, but isn't taken down by the trivial shite this culture keeps heaping on me. Somewhere in the middle, my strong brutal woman self will meet my academic sensibilities, and they'll dance.

Though, knowing me, they'll box.

Maybe they'll kiss afterwards?

It'll be a good show, in any case.

Notes of All Sorts

So, my latest Realms story's finally gotten through the slush pile, though it'll be at least another month before I know whether or not it's gotten through that round, or'll be returned with a Blue Form of Death. Granted, it's been a while since I got one of those: I graduated to Yellow Form of Encouragement some time back. Let's be hopeful and hope that I place this one, OK? I could sure as hell use the money...

I've stalled out on my rewrite again. I'm spinning my wheels with chapter 27 - I have five storylines going on all at once, two of which diverge at this point, and I have a shit load of clean up due to the subplot I added in *after* I finished what I thought was the final draft of book one (biggest note from Clarion: "Civil wars do not make good subplots." I'm bad at taking this sort of reasonable advice). I'm doing some ritualistic cleaning. Still. Again, I don't think this book'll be "done" until somebody buys it and sends it to the printer. Till then, I'll be fucking around with it.

The 62nd annual World SF convention is currently going on right now, and I must admit, I'm a little jealous of everyone who's there, though I had no interest in going to Boston this year. It's quite lonely to read most of my daily blogs and hearing con reports and not being there. Cory Doctorow's got some great pics up (does anyone else think Cory was cuter before he lost weight? Maybe just me... I haven't seen him in person in years). Ah, yes, it's a geekfest. These are my kinds of people... Next year in Glasgow, baby. I'll be there. I miss my people!

Back to writing... er, that is, after me and my buddy Jenn get back from seeing Hero. I hear it's awesome.

More later.

Beer & Writing

Gblah gblah words & beer.

I was such a writing slacker last month. I've got to catch up. Good music, good beer, piles and piles and piles of words.

Gblah gblah.

OK, I'll take out my internet card now....

Do-Whop-Doo-Eeee

Matt Cheney over at the Mumpsimus has a conversation going on about the equation of fantasy fiction with escapism. Join us here.

Other interesting things include, Why Young Women Reject the Lable "Feminist", some coolish story links at Lithaven, they're making a live-action movie of Aeon Flux with Charlize Theron and directed by Karyn Kusama (director of Girlfight) (who'da thought?), these fuckers would like you to believe unemployment is down (and yet, nobody says that all those "new" jobs are minimum wage, and several people are working two or three of them just to eat food and live out of their cars), and in other news, I've got a three day paid weekend, and will be writing my ass off.

I *will* get this next goddamn set of stories done and in the mail. Goddammit.

Unloading Gmail Accounts

Anybody else want a gmail account? My brother's already got one, and I just got more invites.

Send me an e-mail, or post a comment (peeps get priority).

Homage

As a Homage to mymagro's blog (where our protagonist was able to lost 9 lbs of water weight in a week by subsisting on fruit, not drinking enough water, and becoming dehydrated), here's what my 5'9 200lb Brutal Woman self does so I can walk confidently down the street with the knowledge that my right cross ain't too shabby:

A typical weekday:

6am: protein shake (1/2 banana, 1/2 cup milk, four strawberries, 1 scoop protein)
10am: half whole wheat pita with chicken & veg.
1 string cheese
1-30pm: other half of whole wheat pita with chicken & veg.
1 string cheese
1 protein bar
4pm: 1 protein bar
6-7pm: pork and veg. omelette or flatbread wrap from Quizno's

(optional pm snack: 1 cup red berries with Splenda)

Walking travel time (to/from train):

Martial arts days: 70 minutes roundtrip
Non-martial arts days: 30 minutes roundtrip

Workout days per week:

Monday: Strength training 60 min
Krav Maga 45 min (variable)

Wednesday: Boxing 60 min

Friday: 1.6 mile jog (yea, yea, I'll be at 2 by the end of the month, blah)

Sunday: 40-60 min. bike ride

If I don't weigh 99lbs while working this way (I do, in fact, have other things to do besides count calories, and I don't aspire to concentration-camp-chic. Isn't it weird that I feel guilty for admitting that being a thin woman scares me?), well, fuck it. I throw in my towel. Congratualtions, I'm not a supermodel. I find being hungry terribly boring. It's just nice to know that now that I'm in Super Kameron mode, nobody can harp on me with the "but I just want you to be healthy" euphemism when what they're really saying is, "Damn, woman, you're intimidating."

Fuck `em.

In other news, I'm hoping to ramp up these workouts pretty soon, likely adding another boxing day on Saturday and a jogging day on either Tuesday or Thursday. There's a hiking trip up to Machu Picchu that I really want to take, likely in 2007 (I've got a big trip to Britain next year, and I have no idea where I'll be the year after, but MP is on my list, and I'd like to do it this way. Far more rewarding).

Anyway, I'm off. Things to do. Novels to write.

Play Feed the Model

This is a bad, bad game.

For the record, my model starved.

"How do you expect to save a model, with those throws?"

I am bad, bad, bad.

National Terrorism Awareness Month! (No Shit)

Just in time for the ramp up to election day, our Republican government is launching a National Preparedness Month, starting this month, right after that holy-of-holies: the Republican National Convention.

I could rant, but why, when someone else has already done it for me.

A whole month of fear propoganda. Wheeeeeeeeee!

White Guys and etc.

Some interesting linkage:

Tools for White Guys who are Working for Social Change … and other people socialized in a society based on domination

Can Men Be Feminists?

And some more Women's Blogs:

Pinko Feminist Hellcat (c'mon, how can you *not* check it out?)

Culture Cat

Willow Tree

Wicked Muse

The Secret Life of a Girl

Beautiful Snarkiness

Amanda rants about those happy bullshit MSN advice columns:

You know you want one of those annoying, cute, happy marriages...
And MSN is here to help! With all their lame advice - not doing this stuff? Then you're fucked!

We all know a couple like this: after years together they still hold hands, make each other laugh and blush, get along famously, and seem to enjoy a dynamite groove the rest of us only dream of.

Yes, I do believe Bridget Jones called them the Smug Marrieds.

But what really goes on behind the scenes? Have these two soulmates actually found their perfect match in this big wide world, or are there secrets and strategies to making sure that romantic spirit continues to flourish over time?

Or are they putting on a big show to hide that they are living lives of quiet desperation?

If you too are looking for a way to better condescend to your single friends, MSN has a multi-point plan for you.

Start solid. Remember that best friend you had when you were a kid? Whether blissfully playing side-by-side in the sandbox, or building an awesome fort together, you two just grooved on being in each other’s presence. Happy couples share that same serendipitous groove, if in the all-grown-up world. Romantic chemistry aside, they genuinely like each other as people, and truly enjoy walking down the path of life hand-in-hand.

It helps to be boring, as that minimizes points of conflict.