yesterday morning (because i didn't get around to posting about it until just now, so don't ask), i woke up convinced that i had written a BEST SELLING NOVEL, NO REALLY, THE NEXT HARRY POTTER/TWILIGHT/EVERYTHING and that it had just been released and the library at the school i work at had ordered, like, 20,000 copies for their new release shelf.

doesn't really matter that they don't HAVE a new release shelf because they're not that kind of library. no, really. they technically DON'T CARRY FICTION. they have someone's (some dead one's) personal library FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY (and it has some great stuff, not putting it down, it's just OLD. doesn't matter in the slightest.

ok, maybe not 20,000 copies. but still.

i totally know what the cover looks like and everything. i woke up as i was looking at it and thinking, wow, that's really cool. ::grins::

( spoilers, ahoyCollapse )

He is dead but he is still here. He is in the bedroom, mostly, dark, kept dark. My mother still sleeps there, because he will kill her if she doesn't. Or me. He might kill me.

He watches us. Everything we do has a hot breath behind it. I wait for his hard fingers to close around my arm, the jerking pull, flinging me against the wall, to the ground. His fingers are dead but they still bruise.

He is so angry. His anger fills the house like smoke. When he appears, into the air like ink into water, the air is hot and rough. We can see him best in the dark.

He is still handsome. The dark hair lies smoothly back from his face, his eyebrows are soft, like feathers. His beard is dignified and beautiful, at the same time. We do not look into his eyes.

He insists we dress to please him. My dresses are pale, with lace and full skirts to my knees. Soon I will be too old to wear them, and the sleeves are, have always been, too short to cover his fingerprints.

He demands the most of my mother. I am too much a child to be expected of, except for my presence, my clothes, my obedience. Except for his one small thing.

He has always eaten carrots before dinner. A certain size, a specific color, cut to an exact diameter and length. It took me a year to learn, but I do it now in my sleep. In my dreams. I don't know how he eats them now, but they always disappear.

He has been worse than ever, this week. My mother creeps around the house with the edges of tears in her eyes. The dim lamplight is brittle, and the silence breathes. I slide the tips of my fingers along the edges of things.

He is already shouting for his dinner, his carrots, his bloody Mary. It is too soon, and I fumble with the sharp knife. Two pieces, wasted, but too soon, not soon enough, I carry the neat plate, my mother the perfect glass.

He is in a rage, raging, enraged, the air in the bedroom is whipping across the bed and tearing at the curtains. The black cloud pours into the space between the bed and the bureau, struggles, withdraws into itself, stretches for the walls. Mother clings to the door frame, the glass forgotten in her hand. We are screaming, I think, but maybe it is the smoke that is whistling past my ears.

I cannot bear this. I am still holding the plate, the perfect little sticks, and I slide them off and let it drop. They are already hot and dry. I hurl them into the writhing cloud, to the beast, to tame it. It collapses in upon itself. The corners shriek. Another cloud blossoms suddenly, and I nearly weep in despair. But this is white, and rose, and blue.... this is not the ghost. She holds him back, I never saw her this fierce in life. Fingers grasp my arm and I jerk away, but it is not him. My grandfather's blue eyes gleam gently behind his glasses as he leads me into another room. It is all right now, child. I recognize him from the photos in my grandmother's house, but they never showed his eyes so blue. It will be all right.

now, here's my question for the masses. here is the opening to a story i started late one night on an excess of sugar and probably caffeine. it's mostly finished; my question is, is it worth completing? or is it too, um, dumb?

( in which i give a french assassin a nervous breakdown.Collapse )

it's a mega-neil-gaiman-sweepstakes!!

ok, this is for all you regulars and randoms, because i need input and i'm taking an informal survey. it will help immensely if you have practical knowledge of the subject to draw on, because it's potentially quite expensive. so.

i want to sell my car. i bought this car six months ago, and owe about $10K on it. i don't like the car. i have to spend about 2.5 hours a day in this car, and i'd really rather drive a car i like. the question is, is it a bad idea to sell it now? if so, how long should i wait to sell it? my idea was, sell it, buy a much less expensive vehicle, pay the residual to the loan company, and continue with payments until the loan is done. however, of course, i have been educated and understand that when a bank/loan company is involved the loan pertains to the car and you can't just transfer it to a different car. i think that makes sense. i don't particularly want to get a new loan, but i will if i have to. i think it would work, although it might screw up my credit... i don't really know how that works. now the part that i don't understand and don't particularly agree with is this: supposedly you lose money if you sell the car too soon. wtf?? you're gonna lose money no matter when you sell it. ever heard of depreciation? there's no way an average citizen is going to make money off a car they buy, drive, then sell unless they find a gold brick in the spare tire. especially since i'm putting 400 miles a week, or more, on this thing. but no way am i going to hang onto this thing for (the possibly mythical) necessary seven years just to get my money's worth. whatever. i just want to get rid of this thing.

any thoughts? anyone want to buy a car?

a book meme, borrowed from afrocurl . she can have it back when i'm done, of course. ;)

The books listed below are "the top 106 books most often marked as 'unread' by LibraryThing’s users."

What I’ve read is in bold, what I haven't read is in plaintext, and what I never actually finished reading all the way through--not yet, anyway--is struck through.

( mmm, books.Collapse )

once again, trying for 100 books in a year. cheers!

1. Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman
   
2. The Cat Who Came For Christmas, Cleveland Amory
   
3. Into The Wild, Jon Krakauer
   
4. Proof, Dick Francis
   
5. The Vandemark Mummy, Cynthia Voigt
   
6. The Perilous Gard, Elizabeth Marie Pope
   
7. Nineteen Minutes, Jodi Picoult
   
8. The Outlaws of Sherwood, Robin McKinley
   
9. Sandman: Preludes & Nocturnes (Book 1), Neil Gaiman
   
10. Sandman: A Doll's House (Book 2), Neil Gaiman
    
11. Coraline, Neil Gaiman
    
12. Will The Vampire People Please Leave the Lobby?, Allyson Beatrice
    
13. Four and Twenty Blackbirds, Cherie Priest
    
14. The Sandman: Endless Nights, Neil Gaiman
    
15. The Ropemaker, Peter Dickinson
    
16. The Spellcoats, Diana Wynn Jones
    
17. In The Frame, Dick Francis
    
18. Risk, Dick Francis
    
19. The Danger, Dick Francis
    
20. Just One Look, Harlan Coben
    
21. Women Who Make The World Worse, Kate O'Beirne
    
22. The Town That Forgot How To Breathe, Kenneth J Harvey
    
23. The Knot Book of Wedding Gowns, Carley Roney (ok, well, i looked at the pictures, but who's counting??)
    
24. 20 Master Plots (And How to Build Them), Ronald B. Tobias
    
25. The Sandman: Season of Mists, Neil Gaiman
    
26. The Sandman: Dream Country, Neil Gaiman
    
27. All of a Kind Family, Sydney Taylor
    
28. All of a Kind Family Downtown, Sydney Taylor
    
29. More All of a Kind Family, Sydney Taylor
    
30. Ella of All of a Kind Family, Sydney Taylor
    
31. A Traveller In Time, Alison Uttley
    
32. Mail-Order Wings, Beatrice Gormley
    
33. Beauty, Sheri S. Tepper
    
34. Straight, Dick Francis
    
35. Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy, Rumer Godden
    
36. All Tomorrow's Parties, William Gibson
    
37. Singer From the Sea, Sheri S. Tepper
    
38. Shattered, Dick Francis
    
39. How To Become CEO, Jeffrey J. Fox
    
40. The Return of the Soldier, Rebecca West
    
41. Kindred, Octavia E. Butler
    
42. On The Road, Jack Kerouac
    
43. The Book Thief, Markus Zusak
    
44. The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd
    
45. Twice Shy, Dick Francis
    
46. Smokescreen, Dick Francis
    
47. Knockdown, Dick Francis
    
48. Slayride, Dick Francis
    
49. Lest You Forget, Violet Witherspoon
    
50. A Knot In The Grain, Robin McKinley
    
51. Hot Money, Dick Francis
    
52. Ronia, The Robber's Daughter, Astrid Lindgren
    
53. Chalice, Robin McKinley
    
54. Something Rich And Strange, Patricia A. McKillip
    
55. Mary Poppins, P.L. Travers
    
56. Mary Poppins Comes Back, P.L. Travers
    
57. Mary Poppins Opens The Door, P.L. Travers
    
58. Mary Poppins In The Park, P.L. Travers
    
59. The Ropemaker, Peter Dickinson
    
60. The Green Rider, Kristen Britain
    
61. Summers at Castle Auburn, Sharon Shinn
    
62. The Tale of Despereaux, Kate DiCamillo
    

she knows footsteps are pounding behind her but she can't hear them over the breath tearing through her throat. she whimpers once, uncontrollably. she's not the whimpering type, but she's beyond that now. there is one more left, one more in desperate need of her, and if this one pursuing her prevents her from reaching him, he will die too, like all the others. she stumbles but recovers. too much is riding on her to allow for stumbles or falls. he may be the last one, for all she knows, and he must be saved.

the bullet catches her off-center, passing effortlessly between two ribs. the sound lags behind, ridiculously slow, and the ground leans leisurely up to meet her. pavement weights her eyes until the pursuer catches up with his bullet, and turns her face to the sky. she opens her eyes. the stars gleam dimly and far away between the rooftops, and she watches them as everything goes quiet.

he looks at her eyes, grey and star-filled, surprised and uncertain. this was it? they sent him after this? long hair tendrils palely into the dark, spreading shadow creeping from beneath her body. he stands up, but hesitates. the shadow, still spreading, seems full of legs and wings, writhing. he stoops and stares, straining eyes in the dim light. it's letters, consonants and vowels, words, phrases, jotted, hand-lettered, typeset, sliding out and away from the small, still form on the ground. they pool around her slender fingers and seem to be clutching for his shoes. he steps back. the words crawl, fumbling but purposeful, out and away and he takes several uneasy steps, then a few more, and then he is gone, pounding down the alley, as the shadowy letters message the night.