"N'oublie pas de donner le bonjour..."
Mrrrr. I need another obsession hobby like a fish needs a flamethrower, but there's a part of me that's actively itching to sit down with my Harrap's, get a grip on all the damned prepositions and pronouns, and then translate a slew of French pop songs into (1) colloquial English and/or (2) singable English. And then to put in enough time at the piano so that accompanying myself on a Cabrel or Goldman ballad (for, say, a UU coffeehouse) wouldn't be just a pipe dream.
This isn't going to happen this year. Probably not even next. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to be in a hurry about getting better at calligraphy, cooking, coding html, composing poems/stories, catching up with current events, etc. It's been ages since I've been able to join the BYM for a movie or game without feeling impossibly edgy about all the things I've yet to finish, and it's looking like at least another half-year before I can shift from "damnation, which fire do I put out now" mode to "ooh, what next..." There are a couple online chat groups (one from fandom and one from my high school) that are oh-so-tempting every time I read their notices, but I can't justify adding them to my calendar when I've gone for weeks without seeing my best friends right here in town.
This obviously doesn't stop me from keeping my journals, or from writing/reading some poems and stories, or from indulging in Things Other Than The Stuff I Should Be Whaling Through. Some of it is compulsion -- my friend Lynetta asked me earlier today, "Could you stop writing...?", and the answer is no. Some of it is sheer hedonism -- it's such a rush to hit the right note, to shape an elegant phrase, to make a character real... Some of it is being hyper-conscious of earlier mistakes -- friendships that faltered because I was too self-absorbed, opportunities squandered, and other errors of judgment. And some of it is outright eagerness - I love celebrating and sharing what I find good, intriguing, hilarious, and other variations of "worth circulating/remembering," and it's a core part of my raison d'etre.
At any rate, even though I often pretend otherwise, there are only twenty-four hours in the day, and my mental tank tends to sputter out whenever I push it past sixteen (and some days, well before that point), so I'm grappling with how to work with that. And, as important, accepting how long it really takes me to get from point A to point B, and planning based on that rather than how much I want to say "yes." Because all those little "yes"es have a way of adding up to more than 24/7, and then one ends up running late and/or making excuses, which is Not Cool, or producing half-hearted, half-assed work -- which is sometimes okay, in fact, but too much of that and the soul starts to shrivel.
Which leads back to "Things I Plan to Do Eventually, But Not This Year." It's a loooong list. A few of the other things:
1 - volunteer for the local talking library
2 - walk a marathon in costume
3 - take an indexing course
4 - write an article for The Serpentine Muse
5 - enter a chapbook competition
6 - paint the walls of my study
7 - participate regularly in a country-, contra-, or folk-dancing group
8 - write some UU worship texts and carols
During the 1990s, a number of French musicians volunteered for a series of CDs on behalf of Sol en Si, an organization assisting children with AIDS. Last month, I decided to treat myself to Vol. 4 after finding out it contained a French-language version of "Girl of the North Country" (with Francis Cabrel, Jean-Jacques Goldman, and Zazie on vocals).
The CD finally arrived yesterday, and "Fille du Nord" is lovely, but the track I've replayed most often has been Maxime Le Forestier's cover of Goldman's "Quand tu danses." I've also been listening to Goldman's version via YouTube. (English lyrics can be found here. If you like Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'un m'a dit," you're likely to enjoy these.)
Goldman and Le Forestier's renditions are quite different, but I find both performances compelling. Both men possess the ability to know when to stretch or shade a note or a syllable just so, which for me is one of the things that set the truly great singers apart from the okay ones. It's an instinct I lack in music (and spoken interpretation, for that matter) -- I can think my way into nuances, given enough guidance and/or preparation, but it doesn't come naturally, and I don't always have the chops to pull it off even when I can hear what I want to do inside my head. Same with drawing and lettering.
That said, I do have it when it comes to writing -- not all the time, and not with every piece, but it's definitely hardwired into my system. For instance, when something I've written is almost but not quite right (even if it's technically correct, and even if it looked fine to my beta(s)), it can nag at me as insistently as a toothache or a splinter. When I do figure out the right cadence for whatever seems "off" -- the right sequence of words, or a different word with the right weight to it -- I physically feel better.
Which is why I've been known to spend hours on a single paragraph or quatrain, employing various tools and tricks to nail what I (or my characters) want to say. This isn't always feasible, of course, and not every piece of writing merits (or receives) this kind of obsessive finetuning. Fortunately, there are also the times when instinct grabs the reins and races off to where it will, such that when I reread what I've drafted, I end up saying, "Holy hell, I came up with that? Go me!"
"Writers are all fruitbats. We're just not all the same kind of fruitbats." - M'ris
This post was also going to enumerate what I enjoyed about church this morning and other blessings, but I've lingered too long on this topic as it is, and I need to devote what's left of the night to billable work (plus supper). I spent a good chunk of the afternoon in my kitchen, boiling chicken (for stock and salads), baking chess pie and rosemary shortbread, and tackling other chores, all with the door wide open and the CD player blaring blues and zydeco. Here, it's spring, and today was one of those perfect days -- daffodils outside the church, a breeze with a bite to it (I like that, days like this), and the sunshine pouring down.
I'd made two pans of the shortbread yesterday for a gift; that particular batch turned out so well that the BYM made a point of saying so. There had been only been a few pieces left over for us (all gone by breakfast), so I decided to bake another pan of it once I got home.
This one? It's okay, though not as good as yesterday's. I ended up having to add milk after mismeasuring the flour, which is the sort of thing that happens when one ends up dancing to "Eunice Two Step" instead of counting. :-)
This isn't going to happen this year. Probably not even next. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to be in a hurry about getting better at calligraphy, cooking, coding html, composing poems/stories, catching up with current events, etc. It's been ages since I've been able to join the BYM for a movie or game without feeling impossibly edgy about all the things I've yet to finish, and it's looking like at least another half-year before I can shift from "damnation, which fire do I put out now" mode to "ooh, what next..." There are a couple online chat groups (one from fandom and one from my high school) that are oh-so-tempting every time I read their notices, but I can't justify adding them to my calendar when I've gone for weeks without seeing my best friends right here in town.
This obviously doesn't stop me from keeping my journals, or from writing/reading some poems and stories, or from indulging in Things Other Than The Stuff I Should Be Whaling Through. Some of it is compulsion -- my friend Lynetta asked me earlier today, "Could you stop writing...?", and the answer is no. Some of it is sheer hedonism -- it's such a rush to hit the right note, to shape an elegant phrase, to make a character real... Some of it is being hyper-conscious of earlier mistakes -- friendships that faltered because I was too self-absorbed, opportunities squandered, and other errors of judgment. And some of it is outright eagerness - I love celebrating and sharing what I find good, intriguing, hilarious, and other variations of "worth circulating/remembering," and it's a core part of my raison d'etre.
At any rate, even though I often pretend otherwise, there are only twenty-four hours in the day, and my mental tank tends to sputter out whenever I push it past sixteen (and some days, well before that point), so I'm grappling with how to work with that. And, as important, accepting how long it really takes me to get from point A to point B, and planning based on that rather than how much I want to say "yes." Because all those little "yes"es have a way of adding up to more than 24/7, and then one ends up running late and/or making excuses, which is Not Cool, or producing half-hearted, half-assed work -- which is sometimes okay, in fact, but too much of that and the soul starts to shrivel.
Which leads back to "Things I Plan to Do Eventually, But Not This Year." It's a loooong list. A few of the other things:
1 - volunteer for the local talking library
2 - walk a marathon in costume
3 - take an indexing course
4 - write an article for The Serpentine Muse
5 - enter a chapbook competition
6 - paint the walls of my study
7 - participate regularly in a country-, contra-, or folk-dancing group
8 - write some UU worship texts and carols
During the 1990s, a number of French musicians volunteered for a series of CDs on behalf of Sol en Si, an organization assisting children with AIDS. Last month, I decided to treat myself to Vol. 4 after finding out it contained a French-language version of "Girl of the North Country" (with Francis Cabrel, Jean-Jacques Goldman, and Zazie on vocals).
The CD finally arrived yesterday, and "Fille du Nord" is lovely, but the track I've replayed most often has been Maxime Le Forestier's cover of Goldman's "Quand tu danses." I've also been listening to Goldman's version via YouTube. (English lyrics can be found here. If you like Carla Bruni's "Quelqu'un m'a dit," you're likely to enjoy these.)
Goldman and Le Forestier's renditions are quite different, but I find both performances compelling. Both men possess the ability to know when to stretch or shade a note or a syllable just so, which for me is one of the things that set the truly great singers apart from the okay ones. It's an instinct I lack in music (and spoken interpretation, for that matter) -- I can think my way into nuances, given enough guidance and/or preparation, but it doesn't come naturally, and I don't always have the chops to pull it off even when I can hear what I want to do inside my head. Same with drawing and lettering.
That said, I do have it when it comes to writing -- not all the time, and not with every piece, but it's definitely hardwired into my system. For instance, when something I've written is almost but not quite right (even if it's technically correct, and even if it looked fine to my beta(s)), it can nag at me as insistently as a toothache or a splinter. When I do figure out the right cadence for whatever seems "off" -- the right sequence of words, or a different word with the right weight to it -- I physically feel better.
Which is why I've been known to spend hours on a single paragraph or quatrain, employing various tools and tricks to nail what I (or my characters) want to say. This isn't always feasible, of course, and not every piece of writing merits (or receives) this kind of obsessive finetuning. Fortunately, there are also the times when instinct grabs the reins and races off to where it will, such that when I reread what I've drafted, I end up saying, "Holy hell, I came up with that? Go me!"
"Writers are all fruitbats. We're just not all the same kind of fruitbats." - M'ris
This post was also going to enumerate what I enjoyed about church this morning and other blessings, but I've lingered too long on this topic as it is, and I need to devote what's left of the night to billable work (plus supper). I spent a good chunk of the afternoon in my kitchen, boiling chicken (for stock and salads), baking chess pie and rosemary shortbread, and tackling other chores, all with the door wide open and the CD player blaring blues and zydeco. Here, it's spring, and today was one of those perfect days -- daffodils outside the church, a breeze with a bite to it (I like that, days like this), and the sunshine pouring down.
I'd made two pans of the shortbread yesterday for a gift; that particular batch turned out so well that the BYM made a point of saying so. There had been only been a few pieces left over for us (all gone by breakfast), so I decided to bake another pan of it once I got home.
This one? It's okay, though not as good as yesterday's. I ended up having to add milk after mismeasuring the flour, which is the sort of thing that happens when one ends up dancing to "Eunice Two Step" instead of counting. :-)