--Barack Obama

And that's basically all I have to say about April. 

Clearly I need to work on my time management. 

Here, have something pretty to look at instead.

That bit of pretty up there is from the Treasures of King Tut exhibit. I have more, I'll parse them out as time goes by. 

I have no goals for next month. I've given up.

No, I'm teasing. Mostly May goals are what the April goals were. Finish Watcher and the Camp-Nano novel I started. Possibly get through the blanket I started. April is going to be my month.

If you believe that I might have sea-front property to sell you in North Dakota.

So if anybody happened to be paying attention there was supposed to be a deadline, on April 20th for the Marianas Trench Fic-let contest. 
Now if anybody else had remembered it and sent me an entry by then I'd probably call it closed and do my judgey bit, and make someone a rabbit. 
But nobody else managed it either (probably because you could have used some kind of reminder in April and I fell down on that one. Mea Culpa).


All of which means...
I'm extending the contest until May 15th. There's a smallish, knitted plot bunny who'd like a home if you're interested. Just post something short, less than 3000 words, either in the comments anywhere I've mentioned the contest or send it directly to me through the comment box on the front page of the site. I'm not looking for polished magnificence, just tell me what you think is behind the door at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. 


I feel like I should rename this thing the Bunny Ides Contest or something like that. Things to ponder. 


Now go, all my little hoppers. I wish for fic-lets.  

When I sat down to write this Miscellaneous Monday, after missing an entire week (visiting my family equals about zip computer time) I was going to launch into this whole profound thing that basically boils down to all my feelings and insecurities about the fact my parents are both hovering around 70 and not in the best of health.

Before I started it occurred to me even if I could make that interesting for the reader (there's a fair amount of angst there, no matter how much I generally try and downplay it, I could probably manage it) there are any number of people who wouldn't appreciate me spilling that all out in the public forum. 

My mother's been casually mentioning her own demise since I was eighteen, and fifteen years ago I attributed that to the fact her own mother died when she was eighteen. Now it feels a little more...foreboding. A little more like she feels like she needs to remind me that she's older than most of my friend's parents. Last fall my father had a random health thing that sent me racing back for KC at the drop of a hat, because he was on a ventilator and that's fairly terrifying at any time, but at seventy-two it's particularly worrying.

Now, in honesty, for nearly-seventy-plus ex-smokers they're in remarkably good health. We had a lovely visit and my mother followed Little J around and gave him absolutely anything he could ask for (as is her right as his grandmother). We went to see the Treasures of King Tut exhibit and took little J out to visit my cousin's farm where he proceeded to beg me at length to let him hatch a chicken egg and take it home. I heard a story about my grandfather I'd apparently never been old enough to hear before.

But every actual, honest thought I could share about all that winds up being right back at that xkcd comic there at the top. 

I think I may not share this post with the general Face-book populace.

Meet Messier Object number 104, better known as the Majestic Sombrero Galaxy.

Can we just take a minute to bask in that name? The Majestic Sombrero Galaxy. I know they don't name Galaxies the way people name planets (I'm not sure we even name planets like that anymore). Frequently they get named for the constellation they're in, or other identifying factors. But not that beauty up there. Nope, it's known as The Majestic Sombrero. 

If you happen to be interested, it was discovered by this guy on May 11, 1781. It's apparently possible to see it using an amateur telescope, which makes me want to drag the telescope back on the deck and look. I don't do this, because there's a high-school behind my house, the parking lot of which apparently needs to be visible from space, and I grew up in the mid-west where you don't borrow other people's fields without permission.

But somewhere, over our heads tonight, there is a Majestic Sombrero. I'm pretty okay with that. 

If you'd like more stats on Lovely M104, you can find them here.

--Neil Gaiman             

One of my favorite books of all time is the collected Marple stories by Agatha Christie. When I sit down and read them I can imagine her, gleaning inspiration from the Detection Club (seriously, look it up, it's a real thing) and pouring herself into Miss Marple because that's generally established as a fact now. 

It's hard to be anything but jealous of Agatha Christie, if for no other reason than her prolific writing pace. I'm jealous of her ability to tell a short story. She takes those tiny windows and turns them into entire universes, and then manages to wrap it up in time to get you home for dinner. I'd be lucky to get you back before next Christmas. 

The last time I tried to write a short story it turned into a ten-book plot arc. I don't think small on plot, and I never have. Most of the time I have a hard time planning for the book I'm writing and not the next four in the series. Which is, I admit, about like whinging that you're being buried in gold coins. 

I said I had idea's for all of that, not that they made sense, or that I thought I'd ever get around to writing them. 

So why do I think short stories are so hard to write? Probably for the same reason I look at people blankly when they tell me to describe something in ten words or less. You've got so little space, everything becomes vitally important. There's no 'put the gun on the mantle in act one' or red herrings or space for repetition. 

For the same reason I'd rather write an entire novel than a synopsis. Because when you tell me I have five pages I start panicking over what absolutely has to be there.

That's not necessarily a bad thing. I should probably be doing that all the time. 

ps--Sci-Fi Friday is already written, so I won't be missing it this week (despite being on the road). I know, I'm an over-achiever. 

On April 7th, 1927 the first television transmission in the united states was aired. Views were treated to a viewing of Commerce Secretary Herbert Hoover.

Now that I've given you that little nugget for though, I'm going to pretend I have some grand reason for why we missed Sci-Fi Friday again last week. I don't, other than continuing car drama and Camp Nano and an intense desire to watch hours of Murder She Wrote.

I promise I'll come up with something that's actually entertaining for Well-Written Wednesday, as long as I don't spend every moment between now and then driving around in circles until my car says it's ready for it's emissions inspection. 

I'm not even entirely sure what one is (some sort of outside porchy thing, not quite sure why it's not just a porch) but I want one. The weather's been nice, and my life has been...not nice for the last week and it's a new month and...

So. March goals. 

Yeah, that's enough about those.

In April I solemnly swear I will continue the blogging, and I'm doing Camp Nano at least this first pass so there will be little word counts chilling at the bottom of my blog posts.

I'm going to read Whose Body by Dorthy Sayers, and re-read Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.

I'm going to torture myself attempting to make this blanket thing I decided to do for my father.

I'm going to finish editing Watcher, in hopes of finding it a home next month.

I think I may have to reward myself with something as I move along, because clearly my normal habits aren't working this year. Oh well, you live and you learn.

Word Count--3015
Feeling: restless