It Works

Words I never thought I would write: I kinda wish my commute was longer. But I kinda do.

When we bought it, I justified getting the Asus eee with the idea that I could work on fiction writing on my commute to work. Why yes, I can. The eee PC drops nicely into the middle section of my purse, the Open Office wordprocessor handles my MS Word files just fine, I was already keeping copies of all my stories on my key fob, and most of the time, I can snag one of the train seats that faces a laptop table to work on. I have adjusted to the bittiness of the eee keyboard, and if the train rocks too hard, I switch to hunt-and-peck typing and progress more slowly. It works. I have written actual new words on the Akseli story, the Beanstalk story, and my fertility-god porn detective novel. Plus notes toward a fantasy story about a cursed wedding trousseau. I am writing fiction again.

What I am not doing is making much progress on any given day. My total butt-in-seat time on the train is only 30 minutes or less; the rest of my commute is on an oversubscribed bus between King Street Station and The U where no writing is possible. So I have my half hour on the train. Some of that must be devoted pulling out the eee, doing pitched battle for table space with the inevitable Guy With His Giant Horking Behemoth Workbook, booting my machine, fiddling with my USB key, and opening a file. (I have long since given up trying to check mail or surf the web on the train -- something about the Sounder wifi combined with the eee's wireless card/software makes connectivity feel about as fast as one of the Comcast turtles tapping out individual bits on a telegraph key.)

By the time I've opened my file and I'm up to speed with the story I'm in, I write a few sentences, jigger a paragraph or so, and then it's time to pack up, surge off the train, and be swept along with the heaving mass of humanity stampeding to the train tunnel. The ideal would be to have at least another 30 minutes on the train. And yet, I guess I'll have to think of some other way to get more writing time in. Because I am not moving to Tacoma for my art.

Of Cats & Lilacs

Yesterday was a big day for Spike. In the morning, in the usual pre-tuna truce, she managed to get fully nose-to-nose with Tinka and hold for several beats before freaking out and hissing and squalling. Then all was chaos, of course, but before that, there was a full heart-beat, maybe two, when they were a whisker apart and simply regarding each other. This is progress.

Then last night, while I was putting away some dishes, Spike finally decided that yes, she was brave enough to go outside. She went out in that very low-hunkered way she has when trying anything new -- Spike is not a bold cat by nature -- with her tail lashing to beat hell. But out she went and stayed out for several hours. I have come to the conclusion that Spike is the sort of cat who easily gets overstimulated, so anything new must be approached very slowly indeed. There's been a lot of new in her life since she came to us, so I am very pleased that this putatively "mostly outdoor cat" has finally begun making her first tentative explorations out again.

Meanwhile, I love the way our neighborhood smells. Our own tiny lilac is only just starting to bloom, very tentatively. But every time I step out in our drive I am awash in the scent of lilac. The whole street is perfumed. Next door has two tall blooming lilac strubs shading the porch, and across the street has a little one snaggling its way through the arbor. There are spikes of purple and lavender visible in every block, usually on big, established trees. There is something wonderfully solid and bucolic about a big 19th century house with a lilac blooming beside it. It feels so gosh-darned Our Town, it makes a person wanna say Gee, Whiz.

Gee, Whiz.