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Action is more interesting than inaction. — LiveJournal
Dec. 31st, 2020 | 09:38 am
Sep. 18th, 2011 | 10:12 am
Sep. 18th, 2011 | 09:58 am
Aug. 5th, 2011 | 03:54 pm
Oct. 22nd, 2010 | 09:53 am
Sep. 16th, 2010 | 10:40 am
Sep. 1st, 2010 | 03:36 pm
Aug. 28th, 2010 | 09:44 am
Aug. 27th, 2010 | 09:19 am
Aug. 25th, 2010 | 09:15 am
Action is more interesting than inaction.
- wall/muscle/gravity
- trolls & vipers
- our story so far
- user info
links
- www.kijjohnson.com
- facebook page
- my tags, let me show you them
- center for the study of science fiction
- aboutsf.com
- frederic pohl blog
- BBC news
- we are not the enemy
- cam: jigokudani snow moneys
- cam: south pole
- kowloon walled city
- eric warren photography
- lucy huntzinger photography
- alchemy notebook
- boobah
- sock monkeys
- lolcat bible
Mostly friends only.
Dec. 31st, 2020 | 09:38 am
If you are interested in seeing my sporadic posts, drop me an email.
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...and
Sep. 18th, 2011 | 10:12 am
is there any way to remove all the detritus on my home page?
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Raleigh.
Sep. 18th, 2011 | 09:58 am
For the past several years, keeping a journal has not been a priority; but it had and has its purpose. It is a connection with people, with friends and readers and myself. I do not yet know what I plan to do here as I restart. For now, let's say that I am happy and busy, and very absorbed with my final year of graduate school.
I have a scooter that doesn't like starting in cold weather. Tatsuko remains her lovely self, still bunny-furred but grown bird-boned with time. I do not climb so much -- I miss Stone Gardens and Peter and Mika in Seattle, and I miss Will Badger, who left Raleigh to attend Oxford, leaving me bereft. I would say I am wearing black in mourning except that I always wear black; this doesn't change.
I am writing -- fiction -- every day. I am preparing for the post-school job hunt. I am, um, eating a chocolate croissant and drinking coffee. And wearing a scarf and, let's see now, jeans; and, um, go Wolfpack! See, this is why I stopped writing a journal.
I have a scooter that doesn't like starting in cold weather. Tatsuko remains her lovely self, still bunny-furred but grown bird-boned with time. I do not climb so much -- I miss Stone Gardens and Peter and Mika in Seattle, and I miss Will Badger, who left Raleigh to attend Oxford, leaving me bereft. I would say I am wearing black in mourning except that I always wear black; this doesn't change.
I am writing -- fiction -- every day. I am preparing for the post-school job hunt. I am, um, eating a chocolate croissant and drinking coffee. And wearing a scarf and, let's see now, jeans; and, um, go Wolfpack! See, this is why I stopped writing a journal.
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I spend more time on Facebook these days,
Aug. 5th, 2011 | 03:54 pm
but look for a reboot of my online journal later this year. In the meantime, I am also kijjohnson on Twitter.
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Briefly:
Oct. 22nd, 2010 | 09:53 am
Writing and appearances:
- I will be at the World Fantasy Convention, October 28-31. My reading is 2:30 on Friday. I am also on a panel about dream-inspired fantasy, Saturday at 10pm, with Mark Teppo, Steve Rasnick Tem, Sydney Duncan, and Susan Forest.
- I'm excited to be part of the North Carolina Speculative Fiction Night, Thursday 11 November, at 7pm, at the Durham-New Hope Barnes & Noble.
- My short-short "Ponies" is now planned to be up on tor.com on November 17th or thereabouts.
- I just submitted an essay to a literary magazine. It would be wholly cool to see something of mine in a place like that.
- I am working my butt off on Kylen. And yet. The beginnning needs to be fundamentally rethought. Again. It really will be better. Again.
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Mixing it up.
Sep. 16th, 2010 | 10:40 am
I love Seattle. I loved it the first time. It started rocky, but I loved it the second time, too: old friends and familiar restaurants, but also new ones, plus a new job, new neighborhood, new relationship status, new sport, new understanding of my body as I moved from idle to athletic. I had, I thought, made lots of changes. I can see now that my five years in Seattle were not about change but about safety, recovery, and rediscovering delight. There's a lot of delight here, too, but Raleigh and grad school are fundamental state changes, movement forward, the ways I am redefining myself for the next decade or more.
...is the plan.
...is the plan.
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Taking a breath.
Sep. 1st, 2010 | 03:36 pm
Is it a bad thing that I view prepping for Dream Visions as my reward for writing up my workshopping notes? The studying is incredibly satisfying. I could spend a lot of time reading Chaucer, unpacking each poem layer by layer, following references and theories down this rabbit hole or that. Given an infinite amount of time and an external incentive to do so, I could do this for years -- even Chaucer alone, not to mention Fanny Burney and Borges and all the other authors I would like to explore -- which I suppose is the attraction of MAs and PhDs.
Writing has to happen, and pronto. My first workshop story is due a week from today, and at this point, I have only a sketchy notion of what I am going to do about that.
I have the go-ahead from the professor of the Dream Visions class to do a creative work as a final project for that. I am no fan of writing scholarly papers, as everyone knows who suffered with me through my previous stab at an MFA, a few years back; but it's not from an unwillingness to do the work. This will require all the research and all the thinking that a traditional paper would, and then it will have to make sense as a story. And then, even for a woman addicted to style, the voice will be a challenge (but what a delicious one!), and that will mean iteration after iteration.
Good think I like that sort of thing. --Is the theory.
So, school itself -- prepping and being in classes -- has been wonderful. Everything else has been a challenge. Moving across country is always this, more so when one is without an actual address for seven weeks, and navigating the start-up challenges of a new life. It is all settling down, and I know that there will be a new status quo within a week or two. Frankly, I can't imagine what tranquility will feel like. Am I being such a good student because it's the only part of my life that I feel control over?
My Seattle friends will fall on the ground and twitch when I say this, but I have loved the weather, even the hottest days. The sun is painfully fierce, but in the shade the air feels velvety and the little breezes are like ribbons against my skin. I was in a lot of pain for the first weeks, as every joint and ligament came to terms with the new environment, but that's mostly gone now: everything settles into its new patterns and expectations and my ankles become inexhaustible again. I wonder what it will be like as we move into winter. I can't even imagine what that looks like here: my experiences have all been of places where it is bitterly cold or rain-soaked or both.
I was sick all last week, so I didn't climb. I'll go on Friday, and then next week, as soon as I get my student loan, I'll think about what's next for that. Everything wants to stretch and start working again, but I don't know yet what it is my body is craving. Those of you snickering like eleven-year-olds can stop now.
Writing has to happen, and pronto. My first workshop story is due a week from today, and at this point, I have only a sketchy notion of what I am going to do about that.
I have the go-ahead from the professor of the Dream Visions class to do a creative work as a final project for that. I am no fan of writing scholarly papers, as everyone knows who suffered with me through my previous stab at an MFA, a few years back; but it's not from an unwillingness to do the work. This will require all the research and all the thinking that a traditional paper would, and then it will have to make sense as a story. And then, even for a woman addicted to style, the voice will be a challenge (but what a delicious one!), and that will mean iteration after iteration.
Good think I like that sort of thing. --Is the theory.
So, school itself -- prepping and being in classes -- has been wonderful. Everything else has been a challenge. Moving across country is always this, more so when one is without an actual address for seven weeks, and navigating the start-up challenges of a new life. It is all settling down, and I know that there will be a new status quo within a week or two. Frankly, I can't imagine what tranquility will feel like. Am I being such a good student because it's the only part of my life that I feel control over?
My Seattle friends will fall on the ground and twitch when I say this, but I have loved the weather, even the hottest days. The sun is painfully fierce, but in the shade the air feels velvety and the little breezes are like ribbons against my skin. I was in a lot of pain for the first weeks, as every joint and ligament came to terms with the new environment, but that's mostly gone now: everything settles into its new patterns and expectations and my ankles become inexhaustible again. I wonder what it will be like as we move into winter. I can't even imagine what that looks like here: my experiences have all been of places where it is bitterly cold or rain-soaked or both.
I was sick all last week, so I didn't climb. I'll go on Friday, and then next week, as soon as I get my student loan, I'll think about what's next for that. Everything wants to stretch and start working again, but I don't know yet what it is my body is craving. Those of you snickering like eleven-year-olds can stop now.
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Welcome to your new life! Here, have a head cold.
Aug. 28th, 2010 | 09:44 am
I am not surprised that I caught a cold after moving here. Seven weeks of travel and then a couple of high-stress weeks wrestling with apartments, money, residency and the start of grad school would be more than enough. Add to the mix that this is a new part of the country, which means new bugs; and 27,000 people have just arrived from their various parts of the world, bringing all their bugs with them, as well. I am just grateful that I got through the first full week of classes (by a matter of hours) before it hit me. I have gotten to the part where an embryonic Old One is forcing itself into this dimension through the various openings in my face, which means that by tomorrow I'll be looking and sounding worse but starting to feel better.
We have met once for the Creative Process class, and so the jury is out for me. How is he goinug to pull this together? Fifteen students, unevenly divided between creatives -- writers and singers and a dancer -- and business types. We'll start the discussion with Twyla Tharp on Monday.
I love the Dream Visions seminar, though I can see that I will be working hard. I am somewhat comforted that four of the nine people in the class dislike Chaucer (they confessed during our discussion of The Nun's Priest's Tale); I love him, so that should count in my favor, right? I should get at least half a grade just for that. The professor gives me the chance to write a short story for my final paper, but I suspect he's pretty rigorous about it.
The office: Fellow student (and SF writer) Eric Gregory and I share a space that feels like a converted factory, with offices ringing an open floor broken into non-Euclidean little spaces by cubicle walls, all overhung with an after-market catwalk under the big skylight, 25 feet up. Everything is cheap or old or broken or all three. Eric and I rifled two other cubicles to come up with two desks that had all their drawer pulls, and we discarded all three of the ratty little file cabinets we started with. I spend most of my days working there; it's been a couple of years since I worked with others, and many more years since I didn't have an office to myself, and it turns out I really enjoy the energy that comes from sharing space.
The previous tenant left a box filled with writing projects from an undergraduate creative-writing class, and I paged through a few. The quality ranged from scarcely literate to clever. Presentation varied nearly as much. One girl had overproduced her final packet with expensive section dividers in a posh matte-pink notebook, every page in a plastic sleeve. It didn't work, and the instructor gave her a C. Next year, that will be my box, my class assignments. I'll give some Cs, too.
There's a lot to be nervous about right now: I still don't have my student loan in hand; my brakes are going; I still have those not inconsiderable medical bills from the surgery this spring. I am still a long way from family and friends and Stone Gardens and the Locks. I still don't have internet at home. And now, a cold. But I am starting to find my way.
We have met once for the Creative Process class, and so the jury is out for me. How is he goinug to pull this together? Fifteen students, unevenly divided between creatives -- writers and singers and a dancer -- and business types. We'll start the discussion with Twyla Tharp on Monday.
I love the Dream Visions seminar, though I can see that I will be working hard. I am somewhat comforted that four of the nine people in the class dislike Chaucer (they confessed during our discussion of The Nun's Priest's Tale); I love him, so that should count in my favor, right? I should get at least half a grade just for that. The professor gives me the chance to write a short story for my final paper, but I suspect he's pretty rigorous about it.
The office: Fellow student (and SF writer) Eric Gregory and I share a space that feels like a converted factory, with offices ringing an open floor broken into non-Euclidean little spaces by cubicle walls, all overhung with an after-market catwalk under the big skylight, 25 feet up. Everything is cheap or old or broken or all three. Eric and I rifled two other cubicles to come up with two desks that had all their drawer pulls, and we discarded all three of the ratty little file cabinets we started with. I spend most of my days working there; it's been a couple of years since I worked with others, and many more years since I didn't have an office to myself, and it turns out I really enjoy the energy that comes from sharing space.
The previous tenant left a box filled with writing projects from an undergraduate creative-writing class, and I paged through a few. The quality ranged from scarcely literate to clever. Presentation varied nearly as much. One girl had overproduced her final packet with expensive section dividers in a posh matte-pink notebook, every page in a plastic sleeve. It didn't work, and the instructor gave her a C. Next year, that will be my box, my class assignments. I'll give some Cs, too.
There's a lot to be nervous about right now: I still don't have my student loan in hand; my brakes are going; I still have those not inconsiderable medical bills from the surgery this spring. I am still a long way from family and friends and Stone Gardens and the Locks. I still don't have internet at home. And now, a cold. But I am starting to find my way.
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Week One.
Aug. 27th, 2010 | 09:19 am
It's easy to love the beginning of the term -- my notebooks are still clean, I haven't had to write any papers, and I'm not behind yet -- and I am content to ride this wave while I have it. That's all.
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The day job.
Aug. 25th, 2010 | 09:15 am
I am taking three classes: a fiction workshop; a loosely formed seminar on the creative process; and "Medieval Dream Visions," a traditional graduate class which I am likely to do poorly in but still want to take. I transferred to the last from a sociolinguistics class that wasn't thrilling me, despite the truly brilliant professor teaching it. I don't care much about dialect, whereas I love "Piers Plowman" and The Canterbury Tales. If I am going to kill myself, I am going to do it for a class about something I'm interested in. --Is the theory.
I love the job of grad school. I have a cubicle. I have tasks with clear deliverables. There are occasional meetings known as classes. I have co-workers with whom I share interests and goals, with whom I talk about the weekend's doings. I get up early and spend a couple of hours at a coffee shop across the street. I don't have internet at home yet, so before my job is when I catch up: Facebook, LiveJournal, email. In a minute, I will head over to Tompkins Hall and start work. Yesterday I read "The Nun's Priest's Tale" (several times), did some background reading for it online; and wrote critiques for three stories for today's workshop. Today I am writing response papers to "The Dream of the Rood" and "The Nun's Priest's Tale" and reading a critical paper about the latter; prepping for tonight's workshop; working out my schedule for the fall; and writing my own stuff. I have 200+ pages of various things to do close readings on in the next week: reading, reading again, taking notes and writing responses. This ends up being a full-time job.
If only all full-time jobs were this interesting. But ask me again in a few weeks. Heh.
I love the job of grad school. I have a cubicle. I have tasks with clear deliverables. There are occasional meetings known as classes. I have co-workers with whom I share interests and goals, with whom I talk about the weekend's doings. I get up early and spend a couple of hours at a coffee shop across the street. I don't have internet at home yet, so before my job is when I catch up: Facebook, LiveJournal, email. In a minute, I will head over to Tompkins Hall and start work. Yesterday I read "The Nun's Priest's Tale" (several times), did some background reading for it online; and wrote critiques for three stories for today's workshop. Today I am writing response papers to "The Dream of the Rood" and "The Nun's Priest's Tale" and reading a critical paper about the latter; prepping for tonight's workshop; working out my schedule for the fall; and writing my own stuff. I have 200+ pages of various things to do close readings on in the next week: reading, reading again, taking notes and writing responses. This ends up being a full-time job.
If only all full-time jobs were this interesting. But ask me again in a few weeks. Heh.
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