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ellarienWhen I left home yesterday, there was cold gritty wind and a pall of dirty grey clouds or dust over the mountains. The shuttle ran into the real storm half an hour north of Tucson, with driving rain and bad visibility, and passed a couple of bad accidents, the sort that leaves battered vehicles sitting in the sunken median, before getting into Phoenix about fifteen minutes late. In the meantime, I'd committed about 700 words to Old Laptop's rattly little hard drive, once I persuaded the machine to boot up and open my file. The SuperShuttle dispatcher at the Phoenix airport had taken refuge inside the terminal building, which made him hard to find, but we connected eventually.
We watched the second half of Ben Hur after supper, and the first half of the making-of documentary. I found myself wondering, later, if that was the LOTR of its time -- the book that attracted a cult following, kept selling for two or three generations, and challenged the technology of the day to bring it to stage and screen.
Today dawned bright and sunny. On the way back to the airport we could see snow on the mountains -- a most unusual sight from downtown Phoenix! I spent a lot of the shuttle ride back just watching the landscape in that unaccustomed mode of little fluffy clouds and distant snow-covered peaks.
The campus weather gauge at the UofA registered 0.17 inches yesterday; I think Phoenix got a lot more, though. The Santa Catalina range to the north has just the faintest dusting of snow, like sifted sugar, on the highest ridges. As I came into the apartment complex, I passed a tree with a whole flock of little birds -- at least one house finch with its vivid splash of crimson on the chest, some plain brown sparrowish things, and some darkly irridescent in the low light, all chirping in sweet, liquid voices.
I don't know if I'm up for writing any more tonight, but my heroine, after moping around going where she's taken for several pages, has finally perked up and seems prepared to go into action on her own account. Oddly enough, my instinct is to skim lightly over the rest of her day as she criscrosses town, swapping clothes and switching bus lines in an effort to escape anyone who might be watching her, rather than covering it in blow-by-blow detail. I'm not at all sure whether I should trust my instincts, mind. After I ran out of steam yesterday, I was looking at the first couple of chapters of Intersection, written more than ten years ago when I was as much in the writing groove as I've ever been. I strongly suspect that Behemoth, so far, isn't nearly as good. At least, I suppose, that means that it's better to write something new now rather than ruining Intersection by trying to revise it at my current atrophied skill level.
We watched the second half of Ben Hur after supper, and the first half of the making-of documentary. I found myself wondering, later, if that was the LOTR of its time -- the book that attracted a cult following, kept selling for two or three generations, and challenged the technology of the day to bring it to stage and screen.
Today dawned bright and sunny. On the way back to the airport we could see snow on the mountains -- a most unusual sight from downtown Phoenix! I spent a lot of the shuttle ride back just watching the landscape in that unaccustomed mode of little fluffy clouds and distant snow-covered peaks.
The campus weather gauge at the UofA registered 0.17 inches yesterday; I think Phoenix got a lot more, though. The Santa Catalina range to the north has just the faintest dusting of snow, like sifted sugar, on the highest ridges. As I came into the apartment complex, I passed a tree with a whole flock of little birds -- at least one house finch with its vivid splash of crimson on the chest, some plain brown sparrowish things, and some darkly irridescent in the low light, all chirping in sweet, liquid voices.
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I don't know if I'm up for writing any more tonight, but my heroine, after moping around going where she's taken for several pages, has finally perked up and seems prepared to go into action on her own account. Oddly enough, my instinct is to skim lightly over the rest of her day as she criscrosses town, swapping clothes and switching bus lines in an effort to escape anyone who might be watching her, rather than covering it in blow-by-blow detail. I'm not at all sure whether I should trust my instincts, mind. After I ran out of steam yesterday, I was looking at the first couple of chapters of Intersection, written more than ten years ago when I was as much in the writing groove as I've ever been. I strongly suspect that Behemoth, so far, isn't nearly as good. At least, I suppose, that means that it's better to write something new now rather than ruining Intersection by trying to revise it at my current atrophied skill level.
