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O!M!G! Sometimes serendipitous little finds are more satisfying than spending a month's earnings on something huge and extravagant. I was idly digging through the bargain bins at Angus & Robertson and managed to find A Concordance, Vol. 1 for $8 (and one of these days I'll, you know, manage to afford The Waste Lands and actually make some progress with the DT series) and...a book that I've been trying to find for FIVE YEARS or something ridiculous like that, for only $5. I would have squawked, but I'd been bopping around the store absently singing R.E.M. songs along with my iPod for the past half hour and I didn't need them to think me any more of a nuisance. Liquid Gold, by Tansy Rayner Roberts. Read it yonks ago when I was but a wee impressionable thing. Renewed it and renewed it until the library got pissy. Managed to track down the first book in the series but not this one. Good feeling.
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schiarire, if more than one copy of these books existed in the seeming universe, I'd buy them and send them to you. I think you'd like them. Pirates! Silver! Time travel! Sexy mercenaries! Australian spelling! Unfortunately, I doubt California has any more copies than Canberra.)
Deadlines are only helpful when they're close enough to be panic-inducing. I'm gazing vaguely at the horizon, where drift the ghosts of my essays and assignments, but there's nothing tangible enough for me to actually be bothered to work. I love holidays. What's scary is that I only have another year and three months to use the 'but I'm a teenager' excuse for my 'eschewing responsibility' phases.
That said, this short story competition entry is due on October 1st and I still need to pull 1000 words out of somewhere and send the thing off to be torn apart by kind beta types. It's like pulling teeth. There's an earthquake! I know that much.
( As usual, when confronted with writer's block I resort to science )
Currently I am just the tiniest bit obsessed with Robert Dessaix (as anyone to whom I have written a letter in the past month will have realised), and I have at least a third of a lovely review/rant/extolling-the-virtues type thing stored away in my mind. Some of it went into my notebook today when I was drinking coffee in a shopping break. I'll save it up for when I finish the collection of his essays and reviews I'm working my way through.
(
schiarire, if more than one copy of these books existed in the seeming universe, I'd buy them and send them to you. I think you'd like them. Pirates! Silver! Time travel! Sexy mercenaries! Australian spelling! Unfortunately, I doubt California has any more copies than Canberra.)Deadlines are only helpful when they're close enough to be panic-inducing. I'm gazing vaguely at the horizon, where drift the ghosts of my essays and assignments, but there's nothing tangible enough for me to actually be bothered to work. I love holidays. What's scary is that I only have another year and three months to use the 'but I'm a teenager' excuse for my 'eschewing responsibility' phases.
That said, this short story competition entry is due on October 1st and I still need to pull 1000 words out of somewhere and send the thing off to be torn apart by kind beta types. It's like pulling teeth. There's an earthquake! I know that much.
( As usual, when confronted with writer's block I resort to science )
Currently I am just the tiniest bit obsessed with Robert Dessaix (as anyone to whom I have written a letter in the past month will have realised), and I have at least a third of a lovely review/rant/extolling-the-virtues type thing stored away in my mind. Some of it went into my notebook today when I was drinking coffee in a shopping break. I'll save it up for when I finish the collection of his essays and reviews I'm working my way through.
