To be buoyed up in a moment when there is no sensible cause for optimism, when everything in me feels as brown and withering and fluttering as the dead leaves of Fall which must come so soon. I wander through the almost-deserted building and never have I felt so alone and forsaken and lonelier still do I feel to guess that everyone must feel this way as they walk a momentary lonely road.

Since I have been in the habit lately of challenging myself and testing my limits, I put down the gauntlet: be happy now, now! And I thought suddenly, I am lonely, but I am an island, and I am good, and no one can take this from me, the blood rushing through my veins, this fire. I can stand in two places at once. Here, and the far wild recesses of my mind, where I can hearken to those familiar spirits. I felt the great desire to run and never stop. How wonderful it is to feel this strange, restless energy.

I decided to do as the ancients called and make a balance with body, mind and spirit: in doing I hoped that my mind would rejuvenate as well as my body and I would feel more lively. I would not say that it has helped my creativity or desire to write, but exercising has made me feel stronger physically and mentally, and now too I am constantly exercising this determination, putting myself to the test.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Last evening attempting to write and failing at it did much for me. For once, really doing it, I finally realize what I should do. I am too burdened by past stories, many novels, to write any more. Difficult as it may be, I want to apply myself to revising these completed novels to my satisfaction before even touching the unfinished novels, much less beginning a new one.

It has been on my mind for some time how many completed novels I have, and how all of them are unfit for human eyes-- Love's Shadow, Love's Image, Cymbeline, A Question of Honor, and Winter's Light, and the short stories, The Grove (lost presently), The Beekeeper, The Tower, Absinthe (also presently lost), and The Annunciation. And my two oldest, A Fragile Reverie and Winter Rose. I am starting to realize that with regard to revision and display, I can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear: nevertheless it gives me great pleasure to share my earliest work, whatever its flaws. Winter Rose was an attempt at Regency romance, Engel von Nacht influenced by the highly dramatic gothic novels of the 1700's I was into in high school, which Jane Austen scathingly parodies in "Love and Friendship" which I am presently reading.

Some old things I simply can't continue, others I can. But I won't have peace until I try.

By the way, I am exiled from the Internet for a week. If I like it, I may exile myself longer, perhaps for a month. Thanks to this Treo I may write in my weblog. Desktop entries will be sporadic and only when I send and receive email. I have determined that I am far from an Internet addict, but a piece of insight stuck with me: if it makes you feel lonely and depressed, then excise it from your life. Similarly, do without it and you will learn that you can. This encourages me in so many ways. Weirdly, I'm already contemplating all the things I'd love to say I can live without, or with little.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

Blanche stepped into the ancient garden of delights, basket swinging from one hand as she surveyed the flowers for harvest. They would serve to adorn her simple gown for the fair, and perhaps accentuate her charm for Jean's appreciation.

A crafty smile worked at her red lips as she picked the loveliest lily blossoms for her black hair. With or without her stepmother's approval, she would receive Jean's court. Suddenly he seemed her only means of happiness or survival.

She relinquished the flowers and knelt suddenly at the small, old grave, feeling not for the first time a familiarity with the place. "Yes," she whispered suddenly. "I was here long ago clutching my father's hand, beholding you, mother, being laid into the ground. Oh, God, his face was terrible!" She closed her eyes and shivered at the memory.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

There have been times in my life that have moved slowly, perhaps for good or bad. But now, nothing moves slowly. When I contemplate how little has altered for me in one year, I'm staggered. Soon, all too soon, it will have been an entire year since I have worked at Mary Kay, Inc., and yet it feels like just a couple of months. Days, weeks spin by at staggering pace. I remember something that happened to me, and I'll realize that months have passed since the event. I'll scan over my diary only to find that weeks have passed since I wrote in it, when I was sure it was only a few days ago.

The feeling grows stronger with each passing day: it is near-insurmountable now, so that I am driven to find a way to slow the passage of time. It is almost supernatural, as though I'm on a legended fairy island where I'm being cheated of my life: while five minutes of my revelry passes, it has really been five years, and my very life is slipping through my fingers like sand. I know my metaphors are extreme, but even these fall short of the passion I feel about this tragedy.

I have heard this so many times, where life rushes by faster and faster until you reach its end. There are two ways my life might end (barring the unexpected): I might find a peaceful, beautiful place where I have nothing to do but write, and when I imagine the end it seems like the sun slowly coming up and consuming me in warmth. The alternative is that I go as I am now: I watch myself changing in the mirror, wondering at time's onslaught; I watch the seasons change one into the other without my herald; days flow by and despite my struggles I don't do as I intend, and soon it's all gone, and I'm left with nothing in my hands at the end.

Anyway, I can think of no way to solve this problem, but to recognize it, to detail it as well as I can, and to lament it seems like the best thing to do now. I have found repeatedly that identifying a problem and my feelings about it is almost in itself a solution.

It may not be enough now. I would willingly change anything to make this whirlwind stop, but right now I don't know what to make different. While I haven't yet succeeded, I have come close to perfecting our home, to bettering my appearance, and my demeanor, to using my time as wisely as I can, the last of which is far from ideal.

I'm giving up momentarily on finding the best interactive fiction engine for
my Treo-- it's just too frustrating. The Hugo engine only plays one game at
a time and now I have the weird feeling that everything I uploaded to my PDA
has become lost to me, but is undeletable. Besides, I'm more interested in
prose than interactive fiction at the moment-- at least until I find some
good software for both desktop and Treo and can play the games reliably.
Despite Hugo's apparent cross-compatibility, there are bugs everywhere.
There are other software to pursue, but I'm tired of thinking of all of it.

I'm more interested in free fiction on the Internet. I thought today of what
would make a successful free book, and this is my working idea:

(1) the achievement of a whole work of fiction, short story or novel;
(2) the available resources and education to edit/revise that novel to the
best of one's ability;
(3) comprehensive criticism and feedback for further improvement.

I can think of no other steps that better benefit a sold, published book
than these, save marketing and promotion, which are exactly what repel me
from the bestseller lists. Now that there is a way for people to publish
their writing on the Internet, many are doing so, and in the cases of the
best, there is no substitute in published form.

As it happens, my goal is to publish my writing on my site to the best of my
ability, without attempting to publish it in print form. Having abandoned
that idea for almost a year, I feel amazingly free to write whatever I want.
I know this must be a good thing: I feel as I did when I first began
writing, before I started growing anxious about what I would ever sell. Now
I don't worry about it. I don't desire the recognition of a published book,
really, and the money certainly means nothing to me. To have others read my
work is all I want, and now that e-books are becoming more accessible, I see
no reason why I shouldn't concentrate totally on putting my writing on the
web, according to my working formula above.

Blanche stood before her small mirror, lacing her corset herself for the first time as best as she could. She could not do it as tightly as Muriel might-- but Muriel was nowhere to be found. Likely she had gone out early that morning for some herb or other. Blanche, freed temporarily from Muriel's scrutiny, did not feel put upon to attend her chores, and with her basket flew from the house and down the road, before her stepmother might return and detain her.

Once out of sight of the old shanty, Blanche relaxed her pace and lingered along the road, near Jean's stretch of farmland. He noticed her instantly: stopped where he worked the land, and waved a tentative greeting. Blanche felt in the moment that more than an expanse of grass parted them: it was her stepmother's ire: even his shyness for her was near-gone.

Languidly Blanche leaned against the gate and watched him continue his work. Despite his obvious pleasure at her unexpected company, he looked almost cheerless: shadows hollowed his blue eyes and pale cheekbones. He looked too as though he didn't eat enough, and he wasn't dressed properly. Would she trade one life of servitude for another? Would she leave Muriel's unkind abode for this sister shanty, trade herb-gathering at daybreak and boiling soap in the yard for cooking for and clothing this lonely man? She might, for her wiles: she could convince him to love her, if he did not already.

What would he offer in return? What would he give, or would it be as with Muriel, devoted servitude for heaps of abuse? What if he had not the courage to reach for her?

As if reading her fervent thoughts, Jean dropped his tools suddenly and went to her, standing opposite her on the fence. "Shall I come for you tomorrow evening?"

As she considered his words, her eyes dropped with sudden disappointment. "No. My stepmother won't allow me to go if she thinks you with me. We must meet on the road."

He glanced aside contemptuously. "Does she think to lock you away from the eyes of men? To support you-- herself a widow-- for the rest of her days?"

"I support her, Mr. Julliard," Blanche said. "And she'll never let me go."

"Don't be so sure of that." Jean watched her with burning eyes as she continued her progress down the road. She could feel his stare, but didn't linger longer lest someone see them together and mention it to her stepmother.

She went to the garden, which bloomed in seemingly perpetual profusion, seemingly waiting for her to appreciate its fertility and abundance.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

How would I Iive without this resource? Yet its necessary source, oil, is our reason for my country's war with Iraq. I have read tonight-- and I intend to contemplate the possible truth of it-- that the USA wants to control what is left of the world's oil supply. Is this worth human lives? No. What can I do without this precious medium, the Internet, through which I express my life's passion? To have this thing which need be finite due to our greed is unsettling. What should I do? Will the world be as my post-apocalyptic imaginings describe in twenty years? Will we be bereft of electricity, on which every human is so dependent? I wonder if I am building my house on the sand in this event. Lately I have given myself almost entirely to electronica. If it were to end, much of my effort would be not only obliterated but obsolete.

I wonder what I should do. For if our country should do something, I should do it first and wait for others to follow me, rather than the other way around.

I am reading "Joy in the Morning," a play written after WWI. It's peculiar in that I have no background or commentary from which to draw about it: I must totally draw my own conclusions about it, which is challenging but interesting. I am still in Chapter 1: this author hypothesizes that since WWI there have been no wars: the story takes place in 2018. How wrong she was! Perhaps the overidealistic and almost unwithstandable patriotism of this book is what has rendered its obscurity. In any case, I am grateful again to Gutenberg for bringing another rarity for my perusal.

"Mathilda" was interesting, but I found its first incarnation, "The Flights of Fancy," near-unreadable. I'll have to try it again at some time. The sentences flowed on perpetually and were difficult to understand.

Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--

A passionate storm is at work; it calls to my mind the two weeks last year I wrote A Question of Honor, and how I finished its last pages in the midst of such a storm. I'm beginning to learn the way of the weather here: storms come up and break more violently than in south Texas. Since I have always appreciated a great storm, this is an enjoyment to me.

I am reading "Mathilda" by Mary Shelley, having completed The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, and its writing, while not as eventful or enthralling as Bronte's, seems one long song to Romanticism, passion, and all its ideals. That the two were written in the same society at the same time amazes me; while their similarities are obvious, Shelley's is clearly devoid of the piousness that heavily characterizes Wildfell. In fact, I thought perhaps Anne Bronte's work might not be as popular as that of her sisters' because her clearly didactic tone is such a poison to modern scholars.

All I have learned of Bronte makes me want to learn more. She was apparently a strong and remarkable woman even limited to twenty-nine years.

My own writing has been halting and difficult lately; this doesn't surprise or even particularly upset me. I remember what it is like to be taken up with passions for my singular world to the exclusion of all else: when I am in the midst of it, I cannot imagine being any other way, and when I am bereft of that energy, I cannot imagine it ever returning to me. Faith and experience reassures me that it will come again if I am faithful to its cultivation. Unfortunately the older I become and the more complicated my life, the more difficult it is to shield that from the means that would extinguish it: the things necessary to adulthood, yet totally unnecessary to anyone.