Goat Notes

Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: First pass on the horsey stuff, of which I know very little. I went through looking for major errors/ideas with the aid of Judith Tarr's extremely helpful Writing Horses, and her Horseblogging posts at Book View Cafe, both of which I can highly recommend. I don't seem to have committed any of the truly classic horrors, but several things could be a lot better, including:

( Noticing how much horses pervade my characters' society in comparison to my own. )

And the little details will be legion, but I knew that already, and that's for correction in the fine edit.

For horse people reading these posts: what most annoys you about the presentation of horses in fantasy when it's wrong, or pleases you when it's right? Who gives you a real sense that their characters are riding horses, instead of bicycles, cavalry canines or daydreams?

For non-horsey folk: what horse-related stuff throws you out of the story, or draws you in?

In other news, my home Internet was on the blink again this morning, so communications may or may not get irregular presently.

My computer, such as it is, has been tediously persuaded to work with me again for the duration.

Tonight I investigate the current state of Ubuntu, just in case.

My relationship with Nonny, the underrated Muse of Folksong, is generally a delightful one.  Sometimes she'll return from the slopes of Parnassus in melancholy mood, and breathe over me the breath of Carrie Grey; sometimes she will be ribald, and bring me Kyra from Kazandry; sometimes she will be both, and bring me De Ville's Toast to His Friends.  And other times she will be so completely off the wall, I haven't even any description for the result that is shorter than singing it.  Always, she will break in upon me like a wave where no sea was hitherto apparent, and not cease until I've worked her latest inspiration into safely-recorded words and music.

This is often inconvenient, but almost always worth it.

And then sometimes she will come back totally monstered on bad nectar, and afflict me with I've Got Badgers in Me Nadgers.

After a pleasant week of Family Stuff, I returned to work to discover a defrosted freezer.  The contents, which were mostly liver and lights, had reached the stage of sending out miasmas and pseudopods.  The Offaly Civilization has now been destroyed, but long shall its memory be green.  Crimson, purple, billy-brown and black also.

My back is staging demonstrations for shorter weights and better pay.

My home access to LJ seems to have mostly gone away, hanging forever whilst contacting "userapi.com".  Some folk report solving a similar problem by forcing their router to grab them a new dynamic IP address.  Doesn't work for me.

In a more encouraging development, I've finally achieved my perfect sausage risotto - my previous standard being mediocre at best.  The secret, such as it is, involves more chilli and garlic, more carrot and coriander soup, and the introduction of small quantities of olives and tomato salsa.  This advance was achieved by one part instinct, three parts advice, and nine parts blind ridiculous luck.

Aaaand it's time to get writing again.

My desktop at home just died, and I can't bring it back again.  Many things will now be delayed until I've restored or replaced it. 

I am now extremely glad that I bought my external backup drive when I did.

I spent much of last night in extravagant adventures with the story's protagonist Oenone - a sort of lionless Una, overflowing with fangirl squee for a ridiculously pretty, gallant, and transparent knockoff of Sir Lancelot.  Oenone could have spotted Helen of Troy a pawn, a queen, and a Primark tracksuit, and still been more attractive.  I was not Sir Lancelot.

And then I read our reviews.  The novel - which was, as I well knew, our actual adventures and not the mere telling of them - garnered somewhat mixed reactions from the critics.  It was called Theseus and Oenone.  I don't know who Theseus was, but I shouldn't be surprised if his surname turned out to be something like de la Mare.

"Unputdownable!  Unpronounceable!" - Romantic Times.

"The dragon was everything every dragon should be.  However, Lancelot du Lake is not Mary Sue's Legolas.  Lancelot is the bastard son of Muhammed Ali and a brick shithouse." - Unidentified Prestigious Fantasy Reviewer.

Philistines!  What do they know?  I was there, I tell ya!

Even if, while it was going on, I could have stood for a lot less of Mary Sue's Legolas myself.

My indigestible food was indigestible, so I was condemned to spend long midnight hours awake, with neither the power to sleep nor the energy to rise.  Therefore I entertained myself with thoughts of Keynes and cargo cults, and whether limited companies have owners, and how to stimulate the grassroots economy without spending a dime, and many other like matters which it will behove me to have mastered when soon I rule the entire world.

The way I figure it, when one's digestion is temporarily spoiled anyway, there can be no better time to contemplate the controversies that might otherwise spoil it when it is fab.

I did get in 460 words on the novel before the more creative and empathetic centres of my brain packed up for the night.  Dance, characters, dance!

And... this afternoon the six-week summer vacation begins.  YEEEE-HAWWWW!

Departmental beano last night.  If you should ever happen to eat at Vito's Bar & Ristorante in Battersea, prefer the admirable seafood, and shun the frumious gnocchi.  The goat has spoken.

Peroni's Nastro Azzuro lager is better summer drinking than I remembered.

My formerly excellent ISP PlusNet has now reached the point of prolonged broadband outages nearly every week - another one kicked in last night.  I am going to have to speak to them firmly.  I notice they're in the middle of a heavy expansion campaign at present.

250 words of Killer-Kate this morning: pipe and tabor, a barnadine dance, the man in the barnacle hat.