I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Sunday, June 28, 2009

A Few Dings

The physical manuscript, check, and cover letter are off to VP. I put those in the mail before I started the work outside yesterday.

What I had originally set out to do with the rain barrels is done. Of course when you start any project, there tends to be things that come up going down that road that alter one's plans. As is the case now. I need to create a ledge for the new rain barrel to hold buckets while filling. Also, Bette tells me that she does have to scoop out buckets of water so I'm going to make that ledge double as a step to get into the rain barrel. And like all major projects it's not complete unless I hurt myself someway. When cutting the rubber edging to put the downspout through, I lost control of the utility knife and took a divot out of my knee.

I'll also need to design and manufacture a new diverter for the old rain barrel. Once I have that in place I can finish loading up the drainage pan with stone.

Also finished up Chapter 13, the first of Act II. Word count now stands at 23182. Most of that is draft zero, so I expect it to expand a little which will place me just about where I thought I would be and where I'd like the novel to finish out at (60-90,000 words). But now I enter the long, dark, tea-time of the writer's soul. The dreaded "middle."

2 comments:

Dr. Phil (Physics) said...

Yay. Applying is half the battle.

Dr. Phil

Steve Buchheit said...

Then I'm halfway there! :)

Then there's the other part of my brain. The part that relives every single design contest we had in school. My designs always made it to the final round. And then they inevitably finished at #2 (if there was only a grand prize), or at #4 (if there were three places for awards). An instructor (whom I became good friends with even after the WORST CRITIQUE EVAR!) used to joke with me about it. The last class we had together that there was a contest, at the beginning of the work he joked that if anybody thought they were going to be second best, they would have to give up such dreams because more than likely I (he said, "Buchheit") already had that locked up. Sure enough, the judges had to take three rounds of votes, I ended up in second. Sigh.