In looking back over one of my WiP fantasy novels, I noticed little mention of the weather. I did okay describing the terrain; probably because I had certain areas of the world in mind I had my characters travel through. I'd been there; I could still picture the countryside. Other places I hadn't been, but looked at pictures of, watched travel videos, read old accounts. But my cavalry captain rides blithely through his fictional world, unaffected by the weather.
That's about to change.
To be fair, the characters live in an area with a temperate climate. Think Greece, Turkey. There are some mountains, seas, changes in elevation. A secondary character comments on the morning chill in one scene. It's not enough. I had to dig back through my memories a ways but I came up with something to throw at my smug captain. Rain. Lots and lots of rain. I remember hiking in torrential downpours in the military. The kind where waterproof clothing only served to make sure you stayed wet AND sweaty. Soggy clothing that added weight to the load you carried. Helmets that dripped water down the back of your neck and into your eyes. Trying to hold onto a weapon that took on all the characteristics of a fresh caught eel. Boots that got wet inside no matter what you did. Then there was the mud.
I never rode a horse through the type of mud I conjured up for my characters, but I remember trying to walk through it. The annoying squelching sound, the slip-slide muscle-tensing way of walking. The spots where the mud seemed determine to pull the boots right off your feet. The way it flicked up and stuck to everything. I can imagine riding a horse in that muck, and pretty soon discovering all your soldiers were caked with mud splatters until they were nigh unrecognizable.
The one good thing I took away from those lovely forced marches was the fact that it ended. Sooner or later, you reached the conclusion of the march, the training exercise was over, the mission was accomplished – something happened to put an end to your own little bubble of misery. Rain didn't last forever, the operation didn't either. Eventually, there was base camp, or barracks, or some chance to rest, dry off, eat hot food and reset your internal fortitudemeter. Good officers and NCOs made sure the troops were taken care of. They knew how far they could push before rebellion reared its head. They doled out attainable goals and stuck to them. 'Just seven more kilometers and we can stop for the night', 'Once we cross that stream, we'll take a break.' This is the talent of my main character; he can motivate his troops because he is riding alongside them, just as miserable as they are.
I'm looking for a place to put unrelenting, blazing heat into the book. Las Vegas was a bit of a revelation. I'd never been that far southwest. It was hot. 114 degrees and nobody even commented. They just shrugged and went from air conditioned hotel to air conditioned car to other air conditioned places. But what would it be like for my characters to live and work in that kind of environment? Even at night, it didn't cool off all that much. But it would be enough. Troops would have to be moved during the night. Water would have to be located far in advance of movement. Even with sunglasses the view was brutal. All details to consider. I have no characters moving through the desert part of my world in this book. Lucky for them. But I'll remember how the desert was, how Red Rocks looked and felt, all the important details. In the other WiP, the characters go from a climate much like southern India to one that is much colder. One character sees snow for the first time ever. That's hard for me to write about, since I grew up with four seasons.
It's so much easier to have every day a temperate one in novels. That's how the first WiP book started out. Perhaps its just some sort of twisted revenge on my part for all the 'fun' I endured in the military, but if I had to train to be miserable, so do my characters. I didn't have to like it, and neither do they.
I'm sure they're going to tell me all about it. Fine. Bring it on, I got an earthquake in my back pocket and I'm dying to use it. I haven't written anything for a week. My characters will rue the day they let me take a vacation, because I had hours and hours to plot my torture of them in loving detail. It's good to be the god of someone else's world.
30 June 2007
22 June 2007
Wish You Were Here...
This "neener, neener" goes out to my brother, without whose childhood torment I would have never grown up to be the psychologically warped individual I am today. Not to mention I would have missed out on the BB gun scar on the back of my leg, the scar on the front of my leg from when you disconnected the brakes on my bike, the fear of speeding hockey pucks from when you needed one more player and told me to stand in front of the goal and guard it... and your team sucked at defense... the scar by my eyebrow from when you convinced me to sled down Devil's Elbow, because making the 45 degree turn at the bottom was 'easy'. "Just throw your body sideways and shift the sled". Uh huh. Forgot to mention the ditch on the far side of the turn, didn't you, Bro?
When I'm out here on the back nine, I'll think of you. Probably as I'm trying to fight my way out of the sand trap. (I really wish you'd taught me to play golf, and not Marco Polo.) Ah well. Wish you WERE here. Then maybe I could collect that beer you owe me.
18 June 2007
Media Review
Out of Our Minds – Gobs O'PhunA Collection of Originals
Gobs O'Phun has been a fixture at the Wyoming Celtic Festival & Highland Games since our first year. In that time they've moved from being mere performers to crowd favorites to pretty much family. A three man group consisting of two brothers (Denis & Tim) and a brother-in-law,(Marty), Gobs O' Phun play folksongs of Ireland and Scotland, including classic ballads, historic rebel and traditional music.
Marty, Denis and Tim were kind enough to send their new CD in advance of their appearance at the Festival this weekend (June 23-24). With five previous pub/drinking/folk song collections under their belt, Gobs branches out in Out of Our Minds into a collection of original Scottish and Irish tunes – with a twist. While retaining the music of the original song, the band changed, rearranged and mutated the lyrics into something different. The fun songs are a tad left of center, while the serious tunes suck you in with their familiar melody, then force you to listen a little closer to the new words.
Notable songs include: "Velvet Seductive Email" done to the music of "Black Velvet Band" and musing over the various pitfalls of the modern Internet; Rebel classic "The Patriot Game" re-envisioned as "Not The Same Old Patriot Game", which talks about how terrorism has become indiscriminate, targeting anyone and everyone, rather than the guilty parties as it did in the old days; "The Festival Song", a true original that made its debut on Gobs previous album, "Barstools and Bad Habits", and tells us about the one great unifier all Festivals have in common… besides beer; Then we have the "Irish Potato Sermon" done "to the traditional tune of "Irish Washerwoman", and listing in loving detail the various and sundry uses for the humble potato; "Oh No, A Banjo Player!" which uses the music from "What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?" to question A) why in the world anyone would even play a banjo and B) different methods of disposing of said banjo and its player. Tim, the banjo player, takes the good-natured teasing in stride, and I have to grin, because I, too, was a banjo player for about a year of my young life. Until I discovered they were even less popular than accordion players.
A final song that deserves special mention. Song # 14. It's not listed on the album, and you have to wait though a minute of dead air to get to it on CD. I only noticed because I dropped the CD into iTunes, ordinarily when the CD ends I'm poking the forward button to restart the CD. Apparently this 'bonus' track of an extra song included after a long dead space is quite common. Why is that? Someone told me it was like Easter Eggs in DVDs, something for the fans if you knew where to look for it. I wonder how many other albums had this and I never noticed because my ADD brain wanted more music NOW. Of course, ripping everything to iTunes means it's there and I don't notice the discrepancy. Song 14 is an instrumental version of "The Saplings" (Song 9 on the CD). Denis, Tim and Marty are fantastic musicians, a fact that gets lost amidst the play and interactiveness of their normal concert. I would love to see them do an instrumental album one of these days, to showcase their obvious love of the music and respect for Celtic Traditions.
If you have the chance, go see them live. No CD can capture the energy and fun that makes Gobs O'Phun an interactive delight.
Out of Our Minds – Gobs O'Phun
A Collection of Originals
With special guest musicians: Scott Beach (Great Highland Pipes and Small Pipes), Ted Cole (Flute/Wind Synth), Chris Daniels (Banjo/Spoons), Peggy Fasing (Violin), Brian Hunter (Bass), Tracy LaGuardia (Violin), Rich Moore (Guitar), John Toebbe (Dobro & Mandolin) and Jeff Watson (Cello) with Eileen Sullivan Kottenstette and special guest Gob, Jim Sullivan.
1. Happy Hour to Last Call ©2007 Martin Lambuth
2. Tootin' in the Tartan/Bagmonica ©2007 Martin Lambuth
3. Velvet Seductive Email ©2007 Martin Lambuth
4. Sailing Homeward ©2007 Martin Lambuth
5. Iona ©2007 Jim Sullivan
6. Not The Same Old Patriot Game ©2007 Martin Lambuth
7. Waitin' for My Wedding Day ©2007 Martin Lambuth
8. The Festival Song ©2007 Denis Sullivan
9. The Saplings ©2007 Martin Lambuth
10. Tha Shein Ukrosh ©2007 Denis Sullivan (Indeed the Hunger)
11. Irish Potato Sermon ©2007 Martin Lambuth
12. Oh No, A Banjo Player! ©2007 Tim Sullivan
13. Happy Hour to Last Call Reprise
Purchase Out of Our Minds through the musicians at their website, or where ever they play.
13 June 2007
UFOsE - Unidentified Fantasy Object Story Excerpt
Friday snippets for Thursday! Poetry Thursday delayed until Saturday! Cats and dogs, living together! Gross overuse of exclamation points!!! When will the madness end??!!
Right
about
now.
Hey, it's been a long day. Back off and read. Excerpt from a WiP fantasy story that I'm still writing background for.
Excerpt from The Ard Prophecy
Perhaps if they had not lingered in the mountain pass, waiting for a scouting party that never arrived, they would have been in time to warn the people. But would these people have listened to a disheveled, battle-worn soldier with wild eyes and a young priest that didn't look old enough to recite the Litany of the Heavens? Explaining they were chosen by the gods to save Ard, and proving it were two different matters.
As Hosam crested the final hill, he pulled his lathered mare to a halt. Below in the bowl of the valley lay Raamat, huddled against a bend in the wide river. A young city, with only the temple and fountain square built of stone. The remainder of the town consisted of wood and claybrick buildings in various stages of construction, open areas for crops, and corrals for the food animals Raamat grew to sustain itself.
Black smoke wreathed the sprawling community. Dead sheep and cattle dotted the plains. Soldiers on heavy horses cantered through the scrambling mass of citizens and swung tapered swords in sweeping arcs. The screams of the maimed Raamatians drifted on the wind to mix with the bawl of sheep and crackle of flame. Even from here Hosam caught the mingled scents of burnt flesh and wood. Horsemen rode over the top of the fallen and trampled them into the mud. The gross casualness of their actions horrified Hosam. He clenched the reins so tight the mare began to back up, tossing her head.
A woman ran from the carnage, pulling a boy by the hand. Her head covering streamed behind her, a pennon of white in the sea of black and red. She changed direction, began to angle her run towards the craggy hill on which Hosam stood. There was no way he could tell her he was not a warrior. He could not save her. He was a priest, he could pray, but it looked as if the gods were immune to prayers this day.
A horseman rode after the woman, aimed a nocked arrow with relaxed grace. He let it fly. It pierced the running child through the back, knocked him sprawling, and pinned the boy to the ground. The woman turned, screaming words Hosam could not hear. She picked up a rock, brandishing it at the horseman. Beneath the furred helm the horseman's shadowed face split into a grin. He spurred the beast forward and raised his sword. Smoke swirled and parted to let him pass.
To the right of Hosam came a strangled cry. "Stop!” His companion had finally arrived, dressed in the brilliant gold armor of a Warrior of Ard. He yanked his horse to a halt, took in the carnage with a glance, and spotted the woman and her adversary. The warrior unsheathed a sword. "Come, Little Brother! To battle." He kicked his exhausted horse. Gamely, the animal broke into a run.
"We're too late. We cannot save the city!"
"But we can die trying!" the warrior shouted. He plunged his horse over the crest of the hill. The horseman below turned his attention from the women to this new threat, pulled a Krez horn from a rope around his neck, and blew. The deep boom spun out over the valley until Hosam could feel the reverberations in his very bones. The casual slaughter became a frenzied killing spree. A group of the enemy soldiers broke away and galloped in formation to face this new threat. Any other place, a lone warrior attacking an entire army would be laughable. But since the war gods had chosen sides, the enemy had no way of knowing if they faced a mere man or something more powerful. A battle line formed as every enemy horseman raised a bow and aimed at the charging Ard rider.
Hosam kicked his horse, dropped the reins, fumbled with the unfamiliar sword at his side, unwilling to let the Ard warrior ride heedlessly to his death. The mare took several steps forward, attempted to run, then skidded to a stop and reared as if someone grabbed her bridle. Nothing Hosam could do would make the little mare go forward. He attempted to dismount, intending to proceed on foot. An unseen hand clamped down on one shoulder in a painful grip and a voice like caged thunder spoke in his ear. "His life belongs to Maahes. Yours belongs to me."
Sounds vanished, and his vision narrowed until Hosam could see nothing but the Ard warrior that galloped in slow motion toward the wall of soldiers. He didn't hear the order that loosed the barrage. He could only watch as a hundred arrows sped forward like birds at sunset.
The arrows winged through the soldier and traveled on, pushing a great wall of red in their path, blood from every man, woman, and child in the town. The wave consumed the woman and her foe, added their life breath and grew taller. The red barrier continued toward the priest.
"Djehuty protect me..." Hosam didn't know if he spoke the words out loud or merely thought them, but the reply thundered in his head.
As you wish.
Powerful arms encompass Hosam. The last thing he saw was the crimson wall vanish before the brilliant glow of the lights of heaven.
Right
about
now.
Hey, it's been a long day. Back off and read. Excerpt from a WiP fantasy story that I'm still writing background for.
Excerpt from The Ard Prophecy
Perhaps if they had not lingered in the mountain pass, waiting for a scouting party that never arrived, they would have been in time to warn the people. But would these people have listened to a disheveled, battle-worn soldier with wild eyes and a young priest that didn't look old enough to recite the Litany of the Heavens? Explaining they were chosen by the gods to save Ard, and proving it were two different matters.
As Hosam crested the final hill, he pulled his lathered mare to a halt. Below in the bowl of the valley lay Raamat, huddled against a bend in the wide river. A young city, with only the temple and fountain square built of stone. The remainder of the town consisted of wood and claybrick buildings in various stages of construction, open areas for crops, and corrals for the food animals Raamat grew to sustain itself.
Black smoke wreathed the sprawling community. Dead sheep and cattle dotted the plains. Soldiers on heavy horses cantered through the scrambling mass of citizens and swung tapered swords in sweeping arcs. The screams of the maimed Raamatians drifted on the wind to mix with the bawl of sheep and crackle of flame. Even from here Hosam caught the mingled scents of burnt flesh and wood. Horsemen rode over the top of the fallen and trampled them into the mud. The gross casualness of their actions horrified Hosam. He clenched the reins so tight the mare began to back up, tossing her head.
A woman ran from the carnage, pulling a boy by the hand. Her head covering streamed behind her, a pennon of white in the sea of black and red. She changed direction, began to angle her run towards the craggy hill on which Hosam stood. There was no way he could tell her he was not a warrior. He could not save her. He was a priest, he could pray, but it looked as if the gods were immune to prayers this day.
A horseman rode after the woman, aimed a nocked arrow with relaxed grace. He let it fly. It pierced the running child through the back, knocked him sprawling, and pinned the boy to the ground. The woman turned, screaming words Hosam could not hear. She picked up a rock, brandishing it at the horseman. Beneath the furred helm the horseman's shadowed face split into a grin. He spurred the beast forward and raised his sword. Smoke swirled and parted to let him pass.
To the right of Hosam came a strangled cry. "Stop!” His companion had finally arrived, dressed in the brilliant gold armor of a Warrior of Ard. He yanked his horse to a halt, took in the carnage with a glance, and spotted the woman and her adversary. The warrior unsheathed a sword. "Come, Little Brother! To battle." He kicked his exhausted horse. Gamely, the animal broke into a run.
"We're too late. We cannot save the city!"
"But we can die trying!" the warrior shouted. He plunged his horse over the crest of the hill. The horseman below turned his attention from the women to this new threat, pulled a Krez horn from a rope around his neck, and blew. The deep boom spun out over the valley until Hosam could feel the reverberations in his very bones. The casual slaughter became a frenzied killing spree. A group of the enemy soldiers broke away and galloped in formation to face this new threat. Any other place, a lone warrior attacking an entire army would be laughable. But since the war gods had chosen sides, the enemy had no way of knowing if they faced a mere man or something more powerful. A battle line formed as every enemy horseman raised a bow and aimed at the charging Ard rider.
Hosam kicked his horse, dropped the reins, fumbled with the unfamiliar sword at his side, unwilling to let the Ard warrior ride heedlessly to his death. The mare took several steps forward, attempted to run, then skidded to a stop and reared as if someone grabbed her bridle. Nothing Hosam could do would make the little mare go forward. He attempted to dismount, intending to proceed on foot. An unseen hand clamped down on one shoulder in a painful grip and a voice like caged thunder spoke in his ear. "His life belongs to Maahes. Yours belongs to me."
Sounds vanished, and his vision narrowed until Hosam could see nothing but the Ard warrior that galloped in slow motion toward the wall of soldiers. He didn't hear the order that loosed the barrage. He could only watch as a hundred arrows sped forward like birds at sunset.
The arrows winged through the soldier and traveled on, pushing a great wall of red in their path, blood from every man, woman, and child in the town. The wave consumed the woman and her foe, added their life breath and grew taller. The red barrier continued toward the priest.
"Djehuty protect me..." Hosam didn't know if he spoke the words out loud or merely thought them, but the reply thundered in his head.
As you wish.
Powerful arms encompass Hosam. The last thing he saw was the crimson wall vanish before the brilliant glow of the lights of heaven.
12 June 2007
D Day
Drop by David Anthony Durham's blog and give him a "Congratulations". Acacia makes its debut in bookstores today!
Read, enjoy, then head to David's brand spankin' new Forum to discuss Acacia: Book One, The War With The Mein.
You know you want to read it.
This message brought to you by the Subliminal Gnomes of the Blogsphere, Corrupting Writers since 1932. "Im in ur Net, makn U du Stuf"
07 June 2007
Listen Up!
I spent a couple hours before bed slacking off. I should have been writing, or doing the dishes, but after four hours Wednesday in various meetings, getting shoved into a supervisory roll (killing my whole responsibility avoidance plan), and spending an hour in the building storm shelter because of a tornado… I just wasn't up to anything requiring much thought. I downloaded podcasts into iTunes so I could have interesting stuff to listen to on my Outreach travels across the Periphery.
I found a lot more podcasts for writers than I knew, combining a Google search for them with browsing iTunes podcasts. I found some new podcasts- or new to me, and promptly subscribed. I already listen to things like Military History podcast, Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac and language lessons – Italian, French Spanish, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Finnish. Take your pick. I found a Latin Language lesson that's helping me with pronunciation.
New discoveries include a nifty Irish and Celtic music podcast, and neat stuff like Alan Watts podcast, Philosophy Podcast, and The Secret World Chronicle – a Mercedes Lackey & Steve Libbey story podcast. My iPod runneth over!
There are more podcasts than any one person can absorb, news, tech, religion, culture, all kinds of commentary. I zeroed in on some writing geared ones, either story mechanics or ones that tell stories.
I've been listening to Escape Pod's SF/F podcast for a while now. Short (20min-1hr) speculative fiction stories read with varying degrees of voice talent, SF news and reviews, reader reactions. Some stories are so fascinating I listen to them again on my return trip. Some of the work read was by Mike Resnick, Jay Lake, Tim Pratt, Isaac Asimov, Sarah Prineas to name a few. They also spun off another podcast for horror called Pseudopod. Too scary for me. :)
Then there is the Dragon Page with SF/F book reviews.
Writing advice from Mike Stackpole.
Writing advice from Fiction Right.
Poets & Writers Magazine podcast with poetry readings and panel discussions.
Poetryfoundation.org which podcasts discussions and criticisms of poetry, including some of their main articles.
Being as I was downloading to my old crappy laptop, and transferring to iPod with a 1.1 USB port, it took a while. Not quite instant gratification, but I'm looking forward to my next Outreach drive and all the cool stuff I have to listen to. The good thing is I can choose to learn something or listen to some good writing and not waste three hours of my life playing road kill bingo. I can turn everything off and just admire the pretty green (for now) countryside and ponder my own writing, but it's good to have options. So time to throw away the cassette tapes and CDs and count me as a big fan of new technology.
I found a lot more podcasts for writers than I knew, combining a Google search for them with browsing iTunes podcasts. I found some new podcasts- or new to me, and promptly subscribed. I already listen to things like Military History podcast, Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac and language lessons – Italian, French Spanish, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Finnish. Take your pick. I found a Latin Language lesson that's helping me with pronunciation.
New discoveries include a nifty Irish and Celtic music podcast, and neat stuff like Alan Watts podcast, Philosophy Podcast, and The Secret World Chronicle – a Mercedes Lackey & Steve Libbey story podcast. My iPod runneth over!
There are more podcasts than any one person can absorb, news, tech, religion, culture, all kinds of commentary. I zeroed in on some writing geared ones, either story mechanics or ones that tell stories.
I've been listening to Escape Pod's SF/F podcast for a while now. Short (20min-1hr) speculative fiction stories read with varying degrees of voice talent, SF news and reviews, reader reactions. Some stories are so fascinating I listen to them again on my return trip. Some of the work read was by Mike Resnick, Jay Lake, Tim Pratt, Isaac Asimov, Sarah Prineas to name a few. They also spun off another podcast for horror called Pseudopod. Too scary for me. :)
Then there is the Dragon Page with SF/F book reviews.
Writing advice from Mike Stackpole.
Writing advice from Fiction Right.
Poets & Writers Magazine podcast with poetry readings and panel discussions.
Poetryfoundation.org which podcasts discussions and criticisms of poetry, including some of their main articles.
Being as I was downloading to my old crappy laptop, and transferring to iPod with a 1.1 USB port, it took a while. Not quite instant gratification, but I'm looking forward to my next Outreach drive and all the cool stuff I have to listen to. The good thing is I can choose to learn something or listen to some good writing and not waste three hours of my life playing road kill bingo. I can turn everything off and just admire the pretty green (for now) countryside and ponder my own writing, but it's good to have options. So time to throw away the cassette tapes and CDs and count me as a big fan of new technology.
03 June 2007
The Grass is Always Greener...
After it rains for three weeks. Of course, after seven years of drought, we need it. So I guess I shouldn't complain about the green mold in my basement and the soggy, just rained on squish of my carpet. But at least the cat no longer has to swim to his litterbox, and I don’t have to hear about it. The drawback to Corgis? They are so low to the ground; they get not only their feet wet, but their entire bottom half.
I even painted the bathroom a nice shade of sage green, but the sink is white, I do have my standards. Apparently I was out at engineering school the day we covered P-traps, because installing a new sink is rapidly becoming more effort than its worth. Since the old sink is tore out, I don’t really have a choice. Learn fast. Thank doG for the Internet, a treasure trove of Do It Yourself videos. What? Read the directions in advance you say? Where's the challenge in that? Not to mention, I usually avoid writing by doing projects, now I am avoiding Operation Remodel Bathroom by writing. So far this weekend I have 500 words on a new history fic short story, two chapters in the Novel That Started in NaNo, and a piece of a speculative fiction short story that has a great beginning, but I have absolutely no idea what happens next.
The gnomes, sensing work and cursing, wisely stayed low, only coming out to hide my basin wrench and pop a key off my laptop. The laptop, unused to such frantic typing, apparently is going down for the third time, making ominous noises and chucking useful keys, like, you know, the one I need to type my name? ("C") I made a half hearted attempt to research laptops. I don’t really want Windows Vista until they are about to the second service pack, I'm happy with XP. I'd like a 17 inch screen to do my Photoshopping on. Macs are too expensive. I should just break down and get another desktop PC, I think the laptop has been out of the house once in the last six months. But I want the option, you know? I have delusions of having a life someday.
I force fed more RAM into this laptop, and it grudgingly runs okay, but it runs too hot, even with a cooling pad. So any suggestions on a decent laptop? I know there are some still out there with XP on them. And yes, things are backed up on my external hard drive. I'm not trusting my stories to any one source, considering MS Word ate an entire chapter last month and never hiccupped it up. I wanted to rewrite it anyhow. Really. (quit laughing) And if I find the gnome that made it disappear... I'm painting him green and installing him on my front lawn as a rain gauge.
I even painted the bathroom a nice shade of sage green, but the sink is white, I do have my standards. Apparently I was out at engineering school the day we covered P-traps, because installing a new sink is rapidly becoming more effort than its worth. Since the old sink is tore out, I don’t really have a choice. Learn fast. Thank doG for the Internet, a treasure trove of Do It Yourself videos. What? Read the directions in advance you say? Where's the challenge in that? Not to mention, I usually avoid writing by doing projects, now I am avoiding Operation Remodel Bathroom by writing. So far this weekend I have 500 words on a new history fic short story, two chapters in the Novel That Started in NaNo, and a piece of a speculative fiction short story that has a great beginning, but I have absolutely no idea what happens next. The gnomes, sensing work and cursing, wisely stayed low, only coming out to hide my basin wrench and pop a key off my laptop. The laptop, unused to such frantic typing, apparently is going down for the third time, making ominous noises and chucking useful keys, like, you know, the one I need to type my name? ("C") I made a half hearted attempt to research laptops. I don’t really want Windows Vista until they are about to the second service pack, I'm happy with XP. I'd like a 17 inch screen to do my Photoshopping on. Macs are too expensive. I should just break down and get another desktop PC, I think the laptop has been out of the house once in the last six months. But I want the option, you know? I have delusions of having a life someday.
I force fed more RAM into this laptop, and it grudgingly runs okay, but it runs too hot, even with a cooling pad. So any suggestions on a decent laptop? I know there are some still out there with XP on them. And yes, things are backed up on my external hard drive. I'm not trusting my stories to any one source, considering MS Word ate an entire chapter last month and never hiccupped it up. I wanted to rewrite it anyhow. Really. (quit laughing) And if I find the gnome that made it disappear... I'm painting him green and installing him on my front lawn as a rain gauge.
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