Fly, you fools!

Roight. Bags are packed, tracksuit pants are on, me and Shark Puppet my BFF are off to China. I'm running on about two hours sleep at this point, so I'm anticipating being entirely oblivious to the 7 hours it takes to get to Singapore. The lovely KJ Bishop informs me there is a Butterfly Enclosure at Changi Airport to entertain me while I await my next flight. Sorted.

While I am away, I encourage you to indulge in mischief and mayhem. The involvement of elephants and/or strawberry mousse will not be frowned upon.

See you at the cliff of autumn.

<3

beardyTess (is not very beardy)

Week One of my beard-growing foray.



Clearly, I still have a lot to learn.

Today, I WROTE.

Myself and another masochist decided have a go at making a writing group. Not a submit-stories-and-meet-up-and-crit-them group, but a get-together-shut-up-and-write-then-go-have-cake group. We ventured deeper into the State Library than I have ever been, and whoa. Apparently desk space is prime real estate on a Saturday afternoon. We made rounds of the rear reading room, whispering and waiting for cannibals to eat us (well, I was waiting for cannibals, I don't think Andrew is much phased by cannibals), and eventually found a desk on the upper level. Always good to have a view to stare blankly at when you're between sentences.

And wrote.

Well. I read. According to Eddie's records, I haven't opened the document since November, which is a terrible, heart-wrenching thing. Has it been so long? I'm sorry, novel, I really am. But things came up. Did you know, in the last three months I've crit three books? That's a lot of critting. Let me confess to you; I love critting. The fascist dictator psychopath arsehole in me likes nothing better than to tear through your baby and point out everything you're doing wrong and then get all arrogant and obnoxious and tell you how to do it right. It's atrocious, I know. But I think you'll agree with me when I say it's better for me to get these fascist dictator psychopath arsehole urges out of my system by critting than by ruling the world, wouldn't you say?

Critting a novel is a huge timesink, however, and I'm constantly underestimating not just how much time it takes to do a thorough job, but how much space in my head it takes up. For the moment, the decks are clear, and oh me, oh my, the novel and I are going to have some hot keyboard-on-wordprocessor action.

After a quick catch up read (argh I don't remember where in the story I am or where the characters are or where they're going oh shit wait when did that happen I don't remember writing that) I got typing, and holy shit it's appalling. It's the sort of shit you don't find because it never sees the light of day. It's me figuring out what the hell is going on, there's absolutely no character in there because I haven't quite remembered how the characters work yet, but I got every one off the ground, and ended with the first shot being fired, and I'm SO EXCITED. 1500 words!

Eeeeeeeee!

And then Eddie's battery got low and we stopped.

There is still the matter of an uncooperative short story I must address, but that is...something strange and complicated that has nothing to do with writing. I've given myself leave to not think about it for a while. There are battles to be waged! (And action scenes to write, oh, yes, joy, ugh.)

Now I cannae wait till next Saturday, to do it again. Hopefully with additional masochists. Which will increase my chances of escaping the cannibals.

Advice For Writers*

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, and the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, and indeed you are alone, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, and you're tired and brooding, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, you're tired and brooding, and you're drunk, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

No, really.

Also the hammering pisses the neighbours off.

Still, partly assembled shelves make good cubby houses.



I expect I'll have to invoke Constructorsaurus for weeks to get this finished.

To add insult to injury, when pouring myself a drink, I ran out of mixer. First run out of drink, now out of mixer. Venture out to buy more? In this cold, wet, miserable night? I'm already doing cold and miserable just fine, no need for a hat trick.

I declare today over.

*by 'writers' I do of course mean 'everyone'.

"What in sam hell is a 'puma'?"

For the next few days I will be hijacking guestblogging MAKING A TOTAL ASS OUT OF MYSELF over on blog de VanderMeer. Which, on thinking it over, is nothing that you guys haven't seen before.

I'll be running another CYOA, which will involve two separate streams that will effect each other, because clearly I need that sort of mad organisational brainfart in my day. If any of you are interested in giving it a whirl, please head on over and I'll be forever in your debt if you show the uninitiated how we roll. It's significantly less crap than the last one, as I had a better idea of what I was doing this time around. I'll post the flow charts for both after this one has ended.

If you've just come from Jeff's blog, hi! Welcome! And how! Feel free to poke around, make disparaging remarks, and what not. This is a personal blog, so while I do talk about books and writing, I also talk about chocolate cake and ponies and the state of my toenails. Be warned. I'm about to do some personal blogging right now, after this line break. Ready?

Liz Gorinsky's eye for an interesting show saw us sitting on the floor of the Ding Dong watching gothic/industrial tribal tap dancers moonwalk. Most excellent. It got me thinking, and I've decided that there is nothing about tap dancing that isn't awesome. Not merely the deep rhythm and astonishing dexterity involved, but that they turn the earth into a percussion instrument, and who honestly doesn't enjoy stomping around making lots of noise? Tap dancing is muchly awesome.

Yet, not cool. Still. Liz said it came with that 1940s vibe, and I have to agree. Despite all contemporary developments and acquisitions, it still carries a huge suitcase of lame ass dork. I tried to put myself in the situation of coming out as a tap dancer in high school, and it didn't work.

Go you awesome tap dancers. Stomp that suitcase to the curb.

Confession: I have an intense artist crush on this guy.





Not only is his art so beautifully whimsical and simple and sad and delightful, but his taste in music resonates with my bones. I devour his art, then I devour the music, and then I pine away the time between now and the next time he updates his journal. Every musician he uses I note down and hunt out. His first name is Tobias, I have no idea what any of his posts say, and I kind of like it that way. Art transcends language, and feeling transcends art. More and more and more such pictures at http://tebe-interesno.livejournal.com/

Random: A' DEEZ NUUUUUTZ?!



The whole bag is full of crazy mutation peanuts. They're like, conjoined peanut twin pod babies. Must be a tough life, being a conjoined peanut twin pod baby. I eat you, put you out of your misery. Nom nom nom.

Quote Captain Badass

On the few shifts I have that fall in the realm of normal, sane, everyday business hours, I tend to make an effort when dressing. It's in keeping with my usual dress code, which is less about comfort and more about blending in. The only way to blend into the crowd on the 23:08 train from Spencer Street is to look like a scruffy bum.

And the only way to blend into the crowd on the 18:05 train from Spencer Street is to look like an office worker.

Most of the time, exercising extra care in my appearance makes me feel like shit. I'm certain absolutely everyone can see through me at first glance, and are thus able to turn up their noses and snort, because daaaamn I'm a lousy poser.

I've never quite managed to achieve pretty, but thanks to my boots, I've been hitting badass quite regularly.

These boots, you see, I love these boots. They're the bestest, most badass boots in the whole world. They are not, as people are wont to say, made for walking in, oh no. These boots are made for standing on podiums and observing military parades, these boots are made for sitting in rolls royces, these boots are made for commanding the invasion of a foreign country in. Combined with the bestest coat in the world, their powers combine and I become Captain Badass, Your Slick As All Fuck Overlord. Ave moi, bitchez.

Which is pretty interesting. The idea that someone might pay attention to me is pathetically devastating, but I'm more than happy for people to pay attention to my boots. I've heard people talk about getting facial piercing and tattoos for precisely that reason, so that others look at and talk to the body art, not the person.

Still, Captain Badass is not a permanent diversion. Captain Badass does get attention, and while it's amusing every now and then, Tessa is better at being invisible. Even Captain Badass is just a poser, and every poser is seen through eventually. Probably right in the middle of a hostile invasion.

I think, judging by the sign, that there is a fugu (puffer fish) restaurant across the road.

!!!

Today is the day. If you never hear from me again, you know the cook fudged it, and I died a glorious culinary death. (Actually, from what I hear, death by fugu is pretty much instantaneous and painless.)