The great outdoors and I

Ah. The great outdoors. Wondrous. Green, lush, vibrant.

Nature. We love each other. The grass and plants and trees. The insects and wildlife.... They all love me and want to get closer to me.

The wonderful plants. Of which I am allergic: birch trees. Why. You are so pretty damnit. Of someone burns you anywhere near me, I turn into an itchy, burning, omg I can't see or breathe kind of mess.

Poison ivy, sumac and oak. Yes, the clue is in the name. But really? Like this? I had a violent reaction early this year, it was just vines. Not even any leaves yet. I wore long sleeves and pants. Soaked straight through. Someone asked me if I had been in a fire. No. Just doing yard work. My husband told me not to anymore. I was banned as a child too.

Mosquitoes. Ah. You. Slimy little bloodsucking bastards. The one part of nature I could do very much without. One night out of doors this past Saturday. Yes, just one.  I sprayed down with a deet containing spray. Are we sure it wasn't pheremones? 89 bites. Itchy, swollen, horrible. On the tips of my toes, my instep. My arms, back and neck. I wear jeans all summer for a reason. And they bite through them. My thighs. 89 bites.

But the good one for last. Bees and wasps. We actually like each other. Really do. Bees tolerate me well. I let them be, they don't sting me or pay me much mind. Wasps? We play. I catch them gently when they fly too near someone who does not love them. I feed them sugar water applied directly onto my skin. I let them swarm me. I have held up to 10 without problem. Seeing something like that does something to otherwise rational people though. They look at me like I am the devil. I fed a wasp once, from my soda can, a big fat drop on my palm. I watched him drink it all. He turned to face me, dropped his stinger to my palm, lightly touched down and flew away. It felt like a thanksgiving.

Good and bad all over. But mosquitoes? Urgh.

Time to write.

So... I've been working away. Actual work. And reading constantly.

And writing. In my head. All the time.

I have this whole stack of notebooks filled with story notes, and dialogue, and completed stories. They just sit there though. Somehow, I keep telling myself that they're not complete. I want to work them into something larger. I want them to be epic and moving novels. I want them to somehow work their way in to a whole cohesive work while I am not looking.

The truth of these things is that they aren't all going to be that way. There is always more editing to do. There is always a better way to put something. Some little niggling detail that is just still wrong.

Some of these pieces may someday work their way into a larger narrative. Some of them are finished. It seems like a good idea to admit that to myself.

So, I am gathering a set of fics together. I am going to write them out one last time. Type them up, then... wait one week,

If I have nothing to add at the end of that week... up they go.

It's nerve wracking. Imagining people reading your work. The first 10 thousand hits I got on my recipes was dumbfounding. The next 10 thousand... incredible. But recipes are not the seat of my soul. Not like these characters are.

 I do not imagine justice. I only hope to do them tribute.

Sleeping?

I was given a miraculous half day off this Saturday. I left work having been directed to sleep in.

I say my alarm for 9:30, because I still have too much stuff to do.

I have laid here for 4 1/2 hours hoping for sleep. I don't think the sandman is coming.