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butterflydreamingAh, the danger of going online. I left my browser open last night on Farmville, so it was there when I opened my laptop this morning. So easy to get sucked in. But I didn't. I'm curious about starting a Cafe World thingy -- another time suck -- modeled along the lines of the business I want to own & run in the future.
I want to. And I'm not even 40 yet; there is still lots of time, if I have a typical lifespan. Business capital is the sticker, of course. I know that doing a huge amount of networking and self promotion first is also important, judging by what I have seen in other small businesses for which I've worked. The interest and foot traffic needs to be in your direction even before you open your doors. You can't just hope for strangers to stop in.
Besides, my concept is largely about exclusion, about being very different, almost aggressively so. I see people respond to that, though. It speaks to that part of us that wants to be special, that wants to qualify for the in-crowd. To sit at the cool kids' table.
My snuffly sinuses woke me up at the stupid hour of 7 on my sleep-in day. My chocolate craving and rumbly stomach motivated me out the door to go get a yummy Ovaltine latte and donuts from Top Pot. *Nom*nom*nom. Spending money I don't have for such things is bad, but nom is gooood. The short walk was a treat, too. I could have gone for a real walk, since D is still sleeping. There is (or was -- seems to have grayed over) an optimistic blue sky above a diaphanous fog, the kind of fog that makes you rub your eyes in case it's just that the blurring is you. The cold this morning is not crisp, but silky. I may go out for a real walk, yet. No museum today; it's next weekend that is free 3rd Saturday. I need to call L so she knows about it. She is already at work, I believe.
I hear D stirring.
Vein of Gold has a discipline of 3 pages of writing every morning. I couldn't keep up with it. It's a time commitment of at least half an hour, much longer if I drift and space out. It's a good brain dump. Doing a brain dump feels productive, though it is not unlike spilling out one's handbag onto the floor. At the least, you now have an empty bag and can fill it with thoughtfully selected items you need all the time or will need later in the day. It gives you a chance to sort trash from receipts that you have to save, put change back into the coin purse, find that lost hair gizzy. I usually do feel lighter afterward. My handbag is loaded with purpose and intent.
The idea is to do it longhand. Writing by hand, on paper, does feel different. Usually, it slows me down, which is why I like writing poetry that way. But since it does slow me down, it has debatable merit over keyboarding. The biggest problem with typing is that it means that the internet and all of the shiny of it are close at hand. Just while writing this, I've opened and used 5 other tabs for various things: the museum, email, email marketing.
D is up.
I admit that I feel like the recess-over bell is ringing to send me back into class. I really like my alone time, my personal quiet. Even though he will happily give it to me and do his own thing, it's not the same. He is, simply by being, a distraction. As anybody would be. I never can write fiction with anyone else in the room, because of the feeling that I am making faces, that they can see my emotions as I write. It doesn't feel private.
D said something about Terry Prachett yesterday, that he read so much that books started spilling out of him. I think some people lean more toward reader or writer. I think that because I still lean toward reader, I am under motivated to write. I am full of stories, yet they don't spill out of me. Why don't they spill out? Why don't all avid readers become writers of novels? Why don't all tennis fans take up a racket?
I think I'm going to see what little other writing I can do, since D went right back to bed. I still can't decide if N gets caught while out on her elicit excursion, or if not this time, and thus has a secret with K. Which means a direction to build on that relationship, thus leaving Y out further in the cold. The original idea was that she would run into Y, and then *they* would have the secret together, creating, in his mind, more of the "special bond" feeling that throws him further out of kilter. I think being left out is better.
And I realized that one way to look at N is this: she let her family, her rich family, disown her because she married a man they didn't like. So her children never knew their relatives, their clan. Family is hugely important in their society. It strikes me as short term thinking. She could have pushed her children onto her grandfather, for example, who would have caved. What would he have done, turned them away? I don't think she should have accepted the disowning. I think, in character, that she is a lot like the younger sister in Sense & Sensibility, where she throws caution to the wind and follows her heart blindly.
Another (eventual) tab: fan cartography.
I want to. And I'm not even 40 yet; there is still lots of time, if I have a typical lifespan. Business capital is the sticker, of course. I know that doing a huge amount of networking and self promotion first is also important, judging by what I have seen in other small businesses for which I've worked. The interest and foot traffic needs to be in your direction even before you open your doors. You can't just hope for strangers to stop in.
Besides, my concept is largely about exclusion, about being very different, almost aggressively so. I see people respond to that, though. It speaks to that part of us that wants to be special, that wants to qualify for the in-crowd. To sit at the cool kids' table.
My snuffly sinuses woke me up at the stupid hour of 7 on my sleep-in day. My chocolate craving and rumbly stomach motivated me out the door to go get a yummy Ovaltine latte and donuts from Top Pot. *Nom*nom*nom. Spending money I don't have for such things is bad, but nom is gooood. The short walk was a treat, too. I could have gone for a real walk, since D is still sleeping. There is (or was -- seems to have grayed over) an optimistic blue sky above a diaphanous fog, the kind of fog that makes you rub your eyes in case it's just that the blurring is you. The cold this morning is not crisp, but silky. I may go out for a real walk, yet. No museum today; it's next weekend that is free 3rd Saturday. I need to call L so she knows about it. She is already at work, I believe.
I hear D stirring.
Vein of Gold has a discipline of 3 pages of writing every morning. I couldn't keep up with it. It's a time commitment of at least half an hour, much longer if I drift and space out. It's a good brain dump. Doing a brain dump feels productive, though it is not unlike spilling out one's handbag onto the floor. At the least, you now have an empty bag and can fill it with thoughtfully selected items you need all the time or will need later in the day. It gives you a chance to sort trash from receipts that you have to save, put change back into the coin purse, find that lost hair gizzy. I usually do feel lighter afterward. My handbag is loaded with purpose and intent.
The idea is to do it longhand. Writing by hand, on paper, does feel different. Usually, it slows me down, which is why I like writing poetry that way. But since it does slow me down, it has debatable merit over keyboarding. The biggest problem with typing is that it means that the internet and all of the shiny of it are close at hand. Just while writing this, I've opened and used 5 other tabs for various things: the museum, email, email marketing.
D is up.
I admit that I feel like the recess-over bell is ringing to send me back into class. I really like my alone time, my personal quiet. Even though he will happily give it to me and do his own thing, it's not the same. He is, simply by being, a distraction. As anybody would be. I never can write fiction with anyone else in the room, because of the feeling that I am making faces, that they can see my emotions as I write. It doesn't feel private.
D said something about Terry Prachett yesterday, that he read so much that books started spilling out of him. I think some people lean more toward reader or writer. I think that because I still lean toward reader, I am under motivated to write. I am full of stories, yet they don't spill out of me. Why don't they spill out? Why don't all avid readers become writers of novels? Why don't all tennis fans take up a racket?
I think I'm going to see what little other writing I can do, since D went right back to bed. I still can't decide if N gets caught while out on her elicit excursion, or if not this time, and thus has a secret with K. Which means a direction to build on that relationship, thus leaving Y out further in the cold. The original idea was that she would run into Y, and then *they* would have the secret together, creating, in his mind, more of the "special bond" feeling that throws him further out of kilter. I think being left out is better.
And I realized that one way to look at N is this: she let her family, her rich family, disown her because she married a man they didn't like. So her children never knew their relatives, their clan. Family is hugely important in their society. It strikes me as short term thinking. She could have pushed her children onto her grandfather, for example, who would have caved. What would he have done, turned them away? I don't think she should have accepted the disowning. I think, in character, that she is a lot like the younger sister in Sense & Sensibility, where she throws caution to the wind and follows her heart blindly.
Another (eventual) tab: fan cartography.