Countdown
All kinds of things I want to blog:
1) Anthony and Cleopatra at Theatre for a New Audience. Despite the fact that Anthony mumbled rather, and we came in late (which ruined Cleopatra's jealous fit for me, since I hadn't got my ear adjusted to the poetry yet), a wonderful production. Octavian and Anthony were played as absolute opposites: Anthony restless, mobile, fluid, physical; Octavian still, wooden, uncomfortable, cerebral. Octavian had some nervous tics and verbal quirks that, very subtly, suggested that he might be a little way along the spectrum from being entirely neurotypical. It worked beautifully. And the Cleopatra! Visibly lined, restless as a cat, sexy as all hell. I cried lots, and enjoyed every tear. What a romantic play that is. See it if you can.
2) Talking to vschanoes's class at Queens College. For an hour and a half, I answered thoughtful and thought-provoking questions about folklore, writing, New York, Changeling, and Asperger's. Later that afternoon, I did it again, with more emphasis on history and fairytale and writing, for a roomful of MFA students. The subtext of many of the questions was "why would a grown-up make stuff up about fairies in New York." It was instructive not to be preaching to the choir for once, and rather energizing. Although when I got home, I had to lie down.
3) I'm almost there on the first draft of The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen. Two more chapters to revise, then a little back-filling on early chapters to reflect changes I made later, which I am going to have to fit into the interstices of helping Ellen's mother kasher her kitchen for Passover and visiting old friends in Texas before the Nebs. I think of E. Nesbitt writing at her kitchen table while her children played around her, of Jane Austen hiding her current novel under the blotter (or was it a book?) when called to duty by her mother or sisters, of our own Esther Friesner writing in the front room, where she could keep one eye on her kids while she typed, of C.S. Lewis dropping everything whenever Janie Moore needed him, and realize that I've got it really, really easy.
Still, I'm feeling a little pressed for time. So I'm thinking that there's not going to be a lot of posting until I've got this sucker turned in--to sdn and my wonderful beta readers. At which point, I will celebrate mightily--and turn my attention to that short story that's clamoring at the back of my head.
1) Anthony and Cleopatra at Theatre for a New Audience. Despite the fact that Anthony mumbled rather, and we came in late (which ruined Cleopatra's jealous fit for me, since I hadn't got my ear adjusted to the poetry yet), a wonderful production. Octavian and Anthony were played as absolute opposites: Anthony restless, mobile, fluid, physical; Octavian still, wooden, uncomfortable, cerebral. Octavian had some nervous tics and verbal quirks that, very subtly, suggested that he might be a little way along the spectrum from being entirely neurotypical. It worked beautifully. And the Cleopatra! Visibly lined, restless as a cat, sexy as all hell. I cried lots, and enjoyed every tear. What a romantic play that is. See it if you can.
2) Talking to vschanoes's class at Queens College. For an hour and a half, I answered thoughtful and thought-provoking questions about folklore, writing, New York, Changeling, and Asperger's. Later that afternoon, I did it again, with more emphasis on history and fairytale and writing, for a roomful of MFA students. The subtext of many of the questions was "why would a grown-up make stuff up about fairies in New York." It was instructive not to be preaching to the choir for once, and rather energizing. Although when I got home, I had to lie down.
3) I'm almost there on the first draft of The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen. Two more chapters to revise, then a little back-filling on early chapters to reflect changes I made later, which I am going to have to fit into the interstices of helping Ellen's mother kasher her kitchen for Passover and visiting old friends in Texas before the Nebs. I think of E. Nesbitt writing at her kitchen table while her children played around her, of Jane Austen hiding her current novel under the blotter (or was it a book?) when called to duty by her mother or sisters, of our own Esther Friesner writing in the front room, where she could keep one eye on her kids while she typed, of C.S. Lewis dropping everything whenever Janie Moore needed him, and realize that I've got it really, really easy.
Still, I'm feeling a little pressed for time. So I'm thinking that there's not going to be a lot of posting until I've got this sucker turned in--to sdn and my wonderful beta readers. At which point, I will celebrate mightily--and turn my attention to that short story that's clamoring at the back of my head.